


About Time

by tenienteross (ada)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship/Love, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ada/pseuds/tenienteross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick Abberline was a modest clockmaker living in London. He had a precise, quiet daily routine—until a certain Jacob Frye crashed into his shop one morning and turned his life around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr Abberline, We Presume

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: this was 100% [Greeneye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Greeneye/pseuds/Greeneye)'s idea (the whole Freddy as a clockmaker instead of policeman AU), so thank you so much for it! Real life Abberline started off as a clockmaker (I think it's also mentioned in the database), so I thought it'd be interesting to see how the Freddy's story would be if he had never joined the police but kept a small workshop in London instead. 
> 
> I'm still not sure if it's going to be 4 or 5 chapters, so we'll see. Anyway, hope you enjoy it <3

When Frederick Abberline woke up that cloudy morning of March, he certainly didn’t see the events that would take place later on coming. 

The man was used to a fixed routine, one he actually appreciated. Maybe it had something to do with his job—being a clockmaker had taught him to be precise and methodical in every aspect of his life. He enjoyed having a general idea of how each day would unfold, although sometimes he craved a little bit of excitement. A hankering he could rapidly satiate just by reading the newspaper or a book—he was especially fond of the crime serials. That was more than enough adventure for him, wasn’t it? All in all, Abberline couldn’t complain: he had a modestly successful clockmaker’s workshop close to Trafalgar Square and was generally content with life. 

Then it all changed, and he could pinpoint the exact moment it happened: when a carriage clashed against the the front of _Abberline’s Clockworks_ , shattering the display’s glass in little pieces with thunderous noise. 

Everything happened really, _really_ fast, but despite his quiet and good-natured spirit, Abberline wasn’t scared easily. Especially not when an injustice had bleen inflicted upon him or someone he cared—and that was what had happened. He watched as the fancy car, made of blackened wood, bursted inside the shop through the display windows. The door creaked at the impact. He stood there on the other side of the counter—observing and processing.

Seconds later, a man appeared from under the car, lifting a cloud of dust and dirt around him. Passers-by started to gather outside the shop, murmuring and pointing their fingers at the carriage and the man who crawled from under it. Abberline blinked his eyes twice, then squinted.

“Damn it all,” the unknown individual sweared, dusting off his trousers and ragged coat. He adjusted his cap and nodded at him, flashing a smug smile. “Sorry, mate, I—Oi, you’re not going anywhere, scum!” He yelled suddenly at someone on his left who Abberline couldn’t see, then raced to the street as if his life depended on it, pushing people away carelessly. 

This couldn’t be happening to Frederick Abberline. 

This thug had crashed into his shop, breaking the glass that had fancy painted letters written with the name of the establishment, turning into garbage every piece of work he had placed on the display for Londoners to ogle. He skirted the counter, side eyeing the disaster: a few pendulum clocks were squashed under the car, two cuckoo clocks he had painted himself lied on the wooden floor, and several pocket watches were now dirty and broken—and much, much more. Hundreds of hours of work and money utterly destroyed.

And this man had had the _nerve_ to smile and run off, after breaking such havoc in his poor, humble business. Abberline was not letting that go unpunished.

Rolling up his sleeves, he opened what was left of the main door, whose glass was also shattered, and looked both ways of the street. Abberline noticed the man running towards the east, following another shadowed figure that seemed desperate to get away from him.

Without second thoughts, Abberline ran after him steadfastly.

“YOU BUGGER, COME BACK HERE!” Abberline screamed, fury all over his face. He must have been quite the sight, because the curious audience around the accident, with frightened eyes, moved away to let him pass immediately.

He might have been a plain clockmaker, but Abberline was confident he could catch up with the bloody car crasher. He started to feel sweat dripping from his temples and brow—but his resolve didn’t flinch, closer and closer to his target.

Abberline breathed heavily, ignoring the people who looked at them with surprise as they went up the street—and ignoring the fact that he had left his workshop abandoned and unattended. “I’m taking you to the police, you bastard!” He yelled again.

That’s when the man noticed him for the first time after running off from the shop, focused as he had been on his own prey. His eyes were wide opened as he realised what was going on, his brow frowning in utter disbelief.

“What the hell?” He cried, moving his head fastly to both sides as he tried to keep an eye on the person he was tailing. “Back off, what do you think you’re doing?!”

Abberline huffed, his breath more and more heavy as he ran. “You broke into _my_ shop!”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “And? See, I’m in a bit of hurry. This is gonna get bad, so you better—”

He couldn't finish the sentence because Abberline’s body tackled him with an unusual strength, knocking him down into the cobblestone of the road. 

“I don’t bloody care,” he spat, adrenaline rushing through his body. He had the man pinned down against the floor and grasped the collar of his shirt. “Do you even know how much money that cost me? You have destroyed property valued in _thousands_ of pounds.” The man seemed taken aback after the sudden display of force. At such a close distance, Abberline saw in his features he was actually just a little younger than him. 

The sound of a gunshot hissed close to Abberline’s ear. 

The young lad was fast and grabbed Abberline by the shoulders, rolling over him. Then, out of nowhere, a pistol appeared in his hand—fingers clasped around the trigger firmly as he raised his arm over Abberline. He took just a few seconds to aim and then…

 _Bang_. The noise was loud and deafening, more than he had ever expected. Truth was, he had never heard gunshots this close. Abberline realised that _maybe_ running off to catch a miscreant on his own had not been a sensible idea, after all.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of powder, afraid to move a muscle. The thug—because now it was clear _this_ was a criminal chasing after another one—was still on top of him, straddling Abberline against the cobblestones. 

The man lowered his head and stared at him. “Well, thank you so much for your intervention. I had to kill a bugger I was supposed to bring back _alive_ ,” he snapped, finally getting up on his feet and extending a hand to Abberline. 

Furrowing his brow, he refused the offer and got up on his own. 

“Then thank _you_ for ruining my business,” he answered bitterly, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. 

Putting the handgun back inside his coat, the thug replied with smugness, “At least you could appreciate the fact that I just saved your precious life, hm?”

“If you hadn't crashed into my shop, you wouldn’t have needed to,” he bit back, pointing his finger accusingly at him. “I’m calling the police,” he resumed, even though Abberline knew that threatening a man who had just shot dead another human being was not very bright on his part.

He probably should have let it go—this looked like an issue between street gangs, and he damn well knew those had been a problem in London for the last years. There was not a day without incidents between Blighters (or whatever they were called) and other rival gangs.But it seemed like his survival instincts were not working properly that morning, and thus he insisted. 

“Very well. Tell the police,” the man said cocksure, raising his hands in mock defeat. “But I’m not waiting for them,” he added, smirking—and that’s when Abberline realised that, of course, he had something up in his sleeve.

Quite literally in this case, because the man pointed his arm at one the ledges from the closest building and… disappeared in a flash. Abberline blinked again, shocked—and then he noticed the rope that had come off from a bracelet around his arm (one he hadn’t paid attention to during the tumble). He heard distant footsteps as the man disappeared through the rooftops.

Abberline looked around him. More and more people had gathered in the street, sticking their heads out of the crowd to see what was going on. He could make up the fallen body of a woman on the other side of the pavement—the same direction the man had shot. His feet moved a bit closer, strangely curious. The middle-aged woman wore a red jacket and tweed trousers. A crimson hole tore through her skull, the red liquid pouring from it. He recognized the uniform of the Blighters, just as he had suspected. 

The bell ringing and hoof clattering against the cobblestones brought him back to reality.

A reality where he might be completely on the rocks, if the damage on the workshop was as bad as he had estimated. 

Abberline let out a deep, tired sigh and buried his face in the palms of his hands.

-

The door of the car slided and Jacob followed, entering the train as it made its stop at St Pancras’ station. Evie glanced at him over the book she held in her hands, nose buried in its pages. She knitted her eyebrows together, directing a stern look at an unsuspecting Jacob.

He muttered a simple ‘hello’ as he made his way back to the wagon, throwing the cap at the hanger on the wall and missing. He didn’t mind leaving it on the carpet and continued to the nearest coffee table, where an uncorked bottle of whiskey waited for him. Jacob poured some on an unwashed glass and offered Evie the other one (used as well, because her brother didn’t care much for cleaning in general). She rejected it with a sway of her hand. 

Evie cleared her throat, putting down the book. “I hear there was a commotion in the Strand this morning. Do you know anything about it, Jacob?”

“I am completely uninformed, sister,” he said, gulping the drink in one shot. He shook his head and pulled a face as the liquid passed through his throat.

“You were to bring Sylvia Duke. Alive,” Evie stated, resting her hands on the book. 

Jacob snorted. “As you can see, I did not. Shocking!”

Evie folded her arms over her chest. Of course, it would be an exasperating exchange—that was the only kind she had with Jacob since their arrival at London. 

“And why haven’t you brought her back?” She pushed, frowning. 

Jacob remained silent, suddenly very interested in the information they had collected on the assassination wall. 

“There were… complications. Nothing to worry,” he declared, at last, and shrugged his shoulders while pretending to read some notes on Elliotson.

Evie sighed in frustration and got up on her feet, her voice a menacing hiss, “ _Jacob_.”

The younger Frye groaned and faced Evie, leaning his back on the cluttered board. 

“For God’s sake, alright. I followed her. She got me and run off on a carriage. I hijacked the car, but I may have also crashed into a stupid clockmaker’s workshop. The owner was pissed off, even though _I said I was sorry_ , and then he chased me off. Mrs Duke took advantage and shot at us. I had to save the bloody man and then… I killed her.”

Evie couldn’t help a growl and held up her hands in disbelief. 

She fixed her eyes on Jacob, scowling. “God, Jacob. That went _really_ smooth. You said you had it under control! We needed that information.”

Of course, Jacob would not just acknowledge his blame—so he returned the bite.

“Well, you could have helped _me_ instead of being here drinking tea with Greenie,” he slurred, not hiding the resentment of his words. 

That was enough to make Evie snap and anger simmered in her insides. 

Aiming her finger at Jacob, she blurted, “I am investigating. You are the one who wants to go Blighter hunting, not me. You should have brought reinforcements. That’s why we have the Rooks.”

Jacob snorted and went to the couch, flopping into it.

“I can handle myself to kill one Blighter,” he spat arrogantly.

Folding her arms, Evie mocked a laugh. 

“Really? Then why did you mess up so spectacularly? Besides, that poor man was right to be angry. You should help him. Give him money for the repairs,” she commanded, pointing her finger at the safe beside the couch. 

Jacob rolled his eyes. “Evie, we don’t have _that_ much money. The place was… upside down. But I said _I was sorry_ ,” he emphasized, underlining each word with a gesture.

Evie shook her head, some locks of hair swinging over her forehead. 

“That’s not enough. We came to London to _help_ its people, not to wreck their houses and shops. You almost got him killed. If you don’t have the money, then do something about it,” she sentenced in a tone that she hoped Jacob would understand as ‘that’s the end of the discussion’.

To her surprise, Jacob didn’t complain right away. Chin in hand, his fingertips tapped over his mouth as if he was actually considering her suggestion. Her brother’s eyes glinted as the spark of an idea—probably a terrible one—took shape in his head.

“I might have an idea, dearest sister,” he stated, his voice swelling with pride. If Jacob was so pleased, it might be even worse than what she could think. 

“Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like it?” She answered with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jacob smirked.

“Because you’re not going to like it. But it’s _genius_ ”

-

“Mr Frederick Abberline, I presume?”

The shop was closed (as it had been for the past weeks, much to his regret), so the sudden voice of the woman startled him. He was kneeling beside a pile of broken merchandise and his legs fumbled. Abberline stood on his knees, trying to recover some balance. 

“I am sorry, Miss, but the shop is— _YOU_.” 

There he was. The young ruffian who had wrecked up his workshop. He threw Abberline a glance of false innocence, hiding behind a young woman with braided hair. 

This was the very man who had left his shop in utter disarray, ruining his business in the process—and he had had the gall to _come back_. Abberline’s eyes passed from one to the other, distrustfully. “I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get out of my business. _Now_ ,” he said, suppressing much of his anger. 

“That’s no way to treat your customers, Freddy,” the man mocked, cautiously behind the woman. 

Abberline groaned, his brow as frowned as it was humanly possible, “You are no clients of mine and _you _,” he extended his finger towards the young lad, “are responsible for all this mess. The shop has been closed for almost two weeks. Do you intend to pay for all my loses?”__

__“Actually, yes, Mr Abberline,” the woman said calmly._ _

__“I knew—wait,” Abberline blinked twice, surprised. He couldn't have heard what he thought he had just heard. “Really?”_ _

__The woman approached him, holding up her hands as a sign of peace. The man stayed behind, looking intently at some of the wares displayed in the dusty counter._ _

__“That is why we came to visit you,” she said conciliatory, a smile on her lips. She pointed at her companion, “My brother here is _very_ sorry for all the damage he caused you. So… he intends to pay you back.”_ _

__In Abberline’s experience, that sounded too good to be true. Usually, people—criminals like this fellow—tried to get away with their deeds. He pondered in silence for a few seconds where the trick was, until he finally gave in to curiosity._ _

__“How, if I may ask? I mean no offense, Miss…”_ _

__“Miss Evie Frye, and this is my brother, Jacob Frye,” she declared, bowing slightly. The thug—which now had name and last name—snapped his tongue, running a finger over a few spare mechanisms lying on the desk. Abberline wanted to shout at him and tell him to leave his things alone, but his sister seemed a fine, polite lady and he was not about to lose his temper. Again._ _

__He cleared his throat and answered to the bow. “Miss Frye, yes. A pleasure. As I said, I mean no offense, but you don’t give the impression to… Well, I make these clocks and I can’t even afford most of them,” he finished dryly._ _

__He had some top quality timepieces in his shop, which were bought only by a number of loyal clients. Fancy clocks embellished with gold and jewels that only the high society of London could buy—and that only them liked, because in Abberline’s opinion they were hideous. But work was work and he didn’t refuse commissions, especially not that kind._ _

__Not that it mattered now, because he had lost most of it in the crash. Thousands and thousands of pounds._ _

__Miss Frye lowered her glance and sighed, “And we can’t pay you whole—not yet,” she rushed to add._ _

__Abberline frowned his brow once again. “Then your intentions are worthless. As my business right now, ironically,” he said bitterly._ _

__Mr Frye lost interest in whatever he had been inspecting at the counter and strutted towards them, a smirk painted on his face._ _

__“Don’t get so snippy, Freddy. It’s bad for your health,” he interjected, winking an eye at him. Abberline decided he couldn’t put up with this Frye much longer and sent him a furious glare._ _

__Sensing trouble, Miss Frye was fast to intercede before it was too late._ _

__“What my brother is failing to explain is that he _will_ be able to pay you. Shortly. We are very sorry for all the inconveniences we have caused you,” she apologized, and her words showed sincere regret over the accident. _ _

__Abberline felt Mr Frye’s presence now beside him. He held a piece of wrinkled paper between his fingers, something scribbled on it with black ink. An address, it seemed. He handed it to Abberline, amused._ _

__“Come here tomorrow night and you shall collect. Deal?” He asked, lifting his eyebrows—that devilish smile still hanging on his lips._ _

__Abberline saw Miss Frye rolling her eyes at Mr Frye. It seemed like she was the first to have problems at dealing with her brother. Abberline felt sorry for her._ _

__He surveyed the shop. There were still shards of glass on the floor, even though he had swept the whole place several times. Wooden planks served as protection for the display windows and the front door fit no longer the frame, probably because the hinges were badly damaged. The back of the shop was worse—a pile of broken pieces, mechanisms and clocks, ready to be used next winter in the fireplace._ _

__Abberline sighed deeply._ _

__“... Deal,” he muttered, accepting the piece of paper._ _

__Mr Frye clapped him on the back, satisfied, and tipped his cap on the way out of the shop._ _

____

-

The closer Abberline got to the meeting place, the more concerned he was about the whole idea. It had been a _bad_ one from the beginning—that was without question. But as he wandered through dark, narrow alleyways around the city at midnight, it started to feel also dangerous. Very dangerous. London was the biggest city in the world, so there was always a high chance of running into thieves or petty criminals. Some stabbing and murdering happened more often than not too, especially in gloomy corners and passageways—like the ones in which he was strolling at that moment. It wasn’t the Devil’s Acre… although, in Abberline’s inexperience, it didn’t make much of a difference.

He swallowed hard, adjusting his hat as he walked past a group of drunkards. Abberline checked the address Mr Frye had provided him, taking a look at the wrinkled paper again. 

_It should be here,_ he thought, glancing upwards only to find a grimy building in front of him. A few muscled men stayed outside the door, blocking the entrance. They were talking with the occasional string of low laughter, pints in all of their hands. Their clothes were all strangely matching, wearing different shades of green. It reminded him too much of the Blighters and their red uniforms—and that didn’t bode well. 

Abberline took a deep breath and resumed his way, approaching the group.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but…” the biggest man faced him, glaring menacingly at Abberline. He was at least one head taller than him, which made Abberline choke a little. “Could… could I find a certain Mr Frye here?”

The man’s face changed from frightening to welcoming and he spurted a cheery laughter, cocking his head to the door.

“Aye, mate! Boss is ready to kick some arseholes in the ring today. Isn’t ‘e, boys?” He declared, proud, and his friends echoed him. Then he looked again at Abberline inquisitively. “Wait, you Freddy?”

Despite his inferior physical presence in comparison to the man, Abberline couldn’t help an annoyed expression at the sound of the monicker. 

“It’s Mr Abberline, yes. That’s me,” he corrected.

“You’ll get your money back, _Mr Abberline_ ,” the man said with a snigger. “Jacob and Evie are bloody beasts, I tell you. I feel sorry for the buggers who are fighting tonight.”

Abberline twitched an eyebrow up. “Fight? What—what do you mean?”

“This,” he replied, his thumb pointing at the entrance, “is a fight club, man. Topping’s. That fellow knows ‘ow to run business in the city. Good if you want to spend and maybe win some coin, get pissed and ‘ave fun.”

“Isn’t gambling… illegal?” Abberline considered, clearly unsettled by the possibility of going inside. 

The tall man shrugged.

“That ain’t a problem. Just don’t tell the bobbies,” he laughed, and his friends mimicked him again. 

Abberline bid them farewell with a tip of his hat and moved past them to the door. 

Well, he was probably going to be paid in black money, he thought. But starvation and the prospect of going back to the family house in Dorset didn’t look quite enticing either, and thus Abberline turned the doorknob and went inside the place. As soon as his feet stepped on the creaky wooden floor, Abberline squinted and looked around, covering his mouth with a gloved hand.

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol, sweat and hint of blood. He could barely move, completely surrounded by crowds of people who drank standing up. Abberline pushed some shoulders to pass among the packs of patrons, murmuring _pardon me_ even though it was almost impossible to hear anything. Above the chattering, he distinguished the sound of growls, grunts, cheers and a band playing with violins and flutes. He could also hear something that sounded like bones cracking.

Abberline felt his head hammering and his face flushing, realising this was definitely out of his comfort zone. However, a part of him found the whole idea strangely exciting—this was the kind of place he had only heard and read about in books and serials, and now he was actually standing there, ready to blend with thugs and questionable sorts. 

Once he managed to escape the bunches of drunk clients and betters that blocked the main door, Abberline found himself in front a large ring, strands of rope marking its limits. He glanced upwards to look at what has happening, as the audience flailed their arms, money in hand, and yelled and cheered and cried at the combatants. 

That’s when Abberline saw it. Inside the ring, Jacob Frye smacked a man to the floor, stepping the heel of his boot onto the skull. Another thug hurried to get him from behind, but Mr Frye was faster—gripping his hand and twisting the poor man’s arm in an unnatural angle. Abberline winced at the sight.

“Mr Abberline!” He heard on his back, and turned to face Miss Frye. “It’s nice to see you came here, in the end. I wasn’t sure you would have agreed to my brother’s proposal.”

Abberline chuckled. “I almost didn’t. It seemed insane.”

“It is, indeed,” she replied with an agreeable smile. “I felt the plan was utter nonsense, but… you see. My brother can be a blabbermouth, but he is really good at this,” she said, sticking her chin at the ring. Abberline thought there was a hint of pride in the way she said it. 

He turned his attention to the ring and, despite himself, Abberline was rapidly enthralled by what he witnessed. Mr Frye was a force of nature in combat, his movements fluid and precise. He was able to counter every hit—it didn’t matter where they came from, as if he had eyes on his neck as well. When he punched or kicked his rivals, there was a roughness that suited him. According to the string of blood on the corner of his mouth, he had taken a few blows before—but now, as Abberline watched, he seemed unstoppable, flowing like water among the other fighters. Despite that, men still dared to jump into the ring and Mr Frye smiled cockly at them, barking slurs. 

“He seems very… capable. I’ll give him that,” Abberline admitted, without taking his eyes out of the ring. “However, I still wonder how he is going to pay me.”

“Everyone you see here tonight wearing green is betting on Jacob. The more money people bet, the more revenue Jacob gets from Topping if he wins,” she explained and pointed at the thin man on the other side of the club, wearing a large top hat and colorful clothes. “And of course, he also bet on himself, because his narcissism knows no bounds,” Miss Frye sniggered, and Abberline laughed with her. 

More men dared to enter the ring and Topping cried out loud this was the fifth round, letting the fighters start. Mr Frye looked unaffected, even though now there were double the rivals than before. Abberline’s eyes lingered for a moment on the tattoo of his chest—maybe a little bit longer that he should have. For some reason, he was enraptured by the spectacle. How could one man take down so many others and make it look easy? Abberline didn’t know, but Mr Frye succeeded—and he couldn’t stop _ogling_ at him. 

“Would you like something to drink, Mr Abberline?” Miss Frye asked and Abberline shook his head, his sight drifting from the ring to the woman. 

“Oh, yes. Thank you, that would be great.”

“Then take a seat. Although this will be over soon,” Miss Frye added, aiming her head to the fight. 

Abberline did as she told him and chose the table that was the cleanest—which didn’t mean much, because all of them were filled dirty jars, mugs, and glasses. After a few minutes, the woman returned, carrying one beer in each hand. When she took a seat in front of him, they toasted and took a draught of their drinks. 

As Miss Frye had correctly guessed, the fight didn’t take much longer. Barely ten minutes after, Topping called the end of the brawl and stepped onto the ring, the audience crazed and cheering the new champion. Topping grabbed Mr Frye’s hand by the wrist and raised his arm, chiming he was the winner. Abberline noticed mostly everyone was wearing those green uniforms that night, and they clapped their hands and gave a loud ovation to Mr Frye, who smiled wolfishly at the centre of the ring.

Topping whispered something on Mr Frye’s ears, to which he nodded. Then he started to walk towards the end of the ring. A crowd of green fellows circled around him and some pat Mr Frye’s back or pushed him as he stepped down. 

“That was a nice showdown, Jacob,” her sister congratulated as he approached them on their table, still wearing no shirt and covered in sweat. Behind him, the men and women in green followed while they toasted their drinks, laughing and chattering. 

Jacob grinned, showing a few bloodied teeth.

“That is so nice of you to say, dear sister,” he crackled. “And look who’s here! Our guest of honor, _Freddy_!” He yelled, looking back at the crowd. They answered with more cheering. “Came here for your money?”

Abberline let out a frustrated sigh, putting down his drink on the table “Of course. Why would I come, then?” He added sharply. 

“Oh, Freddy. You wound me. I thought you missed me already,” Mr Frye said, bandaged hand on his chest and a mocking expression on his face. Abberline rolled his eyes and Evie laughed merrily. “But I kept my word, and your money is waiting for you. No need to thank me, although it’d be appreciated.”

Abberline did not intend to say thank you, and he remained silent. His eyes passed among the crowd of people and their green uniforms. Then he recalled the man outside, who had referred to Mr Frye as ‘boss’ and, suddenly, Abberline started to connect the dots. 

He gave the group a puzzled, intrigued look.

The question was mandatory. “Who are you exactly? Are you… a gang?”

Mr Frye and his friends broke down into laughter, more beer spilled on the greasy floor as they clashed their mugs together. 

A smirk appeared in Mr Frye’s lips. 

“What a question, Freddy. We are _the Rooks_!” He turned his back to Freddy and rallied the crowd. “Lads, drinks are on me tonight!”

Abberline caught Evie sighing, but smiling nonetheless.

As Mr Frye threw himself into the arms of his fellow gang members, Abberline wondered where he had got himself into—only to realise that, in spite of common sense and Mr Frye’s jibes, he wasn’t caring that much about it because he was, in fact, _enjoying_ the night.


	2. Such a Bad Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under a coy appearance, Freddy had quite an attitude. When Jacob did his best to irritate him, Freddy rarely flinched and often had a comeback ready. 
> 
> And Jacob found he quite liked that.

Following Evie’s suggestion, Jacob had visited _Abberline’s Clockworks_ several times to check on the reparations since the aftermath of his victory. Of course, he had complained profusely at first. Jacob saw no reason in keeping contact with a man that was so clearly hostile to his persona (he hadn’t even properly thanked Jacob after the fight club success) now that the problem was solved. Evie’s response was a succinct “That’s what you deserve”, and she insisted. Apparently, she felt really, really responsible for the clockmaker’s well-being—or she just wanted to annoy the hell out of Jacob, which was a much more likely reason. In the end, Jacob knew she would never shut up about it—so he had agreed against his will, but made sure to protest vehemently across the train often.

As he had expected from someone like Freddy, his hard-earned money on the ring was put to good use as fast as he received it. Nearly one month later, the shop started to look like a decent establishment once again. The display on the outside was restored with new glasses for every windows, new letters in white paint on them. Whenever he paid one of his brief visits (after more insistence from Evie), Jacob always waited until closing hour to avoid customers seeing him there—he didn’t want anyone linking him, the Rooks (or worse, the Brotherhood) with Freddy’s shop.

The first times, Freddy had regarded Jacob with cold glances and a sharp tongue. Jacob had dismissively answered with more jokes and barbs, frustrated as we was by being there as well. But now Freddy seemed to _tolerate_ his presence. Jacob could almost swear Freddy had willingly started a few conversations, as he cleaned up and closed the shop late in the evening (because, of course, the man was a workaholic). Maybe he was just pretending to not hate him as much, or maybe Jacob’s charming ways—he couldn’t help a smirk at that—had finally cast its effect on the man. 

The truth was, he may have never be bothered to return if not for Evie. However, with each new trip to the shop, Jacob found out he began to enjoy the company of the strange hairy man—even if it was by trying to get on his nerves. Under a coy appearance, Freddy had quite an attitude. When Jacob did his best to irritate him, Freddy rarely flinched and often had a comeback ready. 

And Jacob found he quite liked that.

Slowly, he had started to pay occasional visits not-so-reluctantly after a day’s work, which usually involved tagging Templars, getting into brawls with Blighters, helping Clara’s urchins and the occasional robbery when Wynert tipped them off on interesting cargo.

That night, he was kneeling on the roof in front of the shop. Jacob waited for the streets to be empty, checking sideways to make sure there were no pedestrians or night walkers around. He was about to climb down when he noticed two men approaching the place.

Red uniforms. Weapons. Blighters.

Jacob squeezed his jaw shut and squinted. The thugs entered the shop. Swiftly, Jacob put on his cowl and started to go down the building. He landed with a thud on the pavement and hurried to hide under the arch of a passageway. The street was barely lit by a few gas lamps and Jacob had a hard time seeing if there were more Blighters coming.

Fortunately, the lights from the shop allowed him to peek inside and watch from his hiding spot. The Blighters hadn’t drawn their weapons yet. He could see their broad backs, standing in front of the counter—Freddy’s figure sliding in the middle. The man was looking at the thugs suspiciously, but instead of being cautious, he seemed to be arguing over something.

 _Come on, Freddy_ , Jacob pleaded silently. If he had been so reckless to follow him in his chase for Sylvia Duke when they met, he would no doubt get into a fight with these two. And that would definitely end badly.

Jacob clenched his fists, putting on the brass knuckles in case he had to intervene. Surprisingly, few minutes later the pair of Blighters abandoned the shop. Jacob could hear them boasting on their way out, and through the newly repaired glass of the windows, he saw Freddy wandering nervously around the room.

When Jacob finally crossed the street, hidden by shadows, he knocked softly on the main door. A snort and a side glance from Freddy greeted him. 

“Oh, and now you. Talk of the devil,” Freddy spat as he opened the shop for Jacob, a deep furrow in his brow. He proceed to ignore his presence, walking behind the counter and busying himself with a stack of papers and handwritten receipts.

Jacob followed, a smirk smugly hanging on the corner of his mouth and arms resting on the counter. He stretched his neck to take a peek at what Freddy’s was organizing, and the man rapidly removed the documents from his range of vision with a flick.

“I am so glad to see you too,” Jacob interjected, a note of false offense in his voice. “I noticed those thugs on my way here. Were they on business?” He asked, looking absently at his fingernails.

Freddy let out a frustrated grunt, knocking some papers down a drawer. He closed it with a loud bang that shook the entire piece of furniture. Jacob decided to wait a bit and leave any witty or funny remark for later.

Freddy, irritated, crossed his arms. “Not on _my_ business, but theirs—which is harassing people like me because, apparently, I am now working for your Rooks. Bloody nonsense, that’s what it is.”

It didn’t really come as a complete surprise to Jacob, who shrugged as an answer.

Despite his _intention_ in being careful when he visited Freddy in the evening (and he should underline that the key word was _intention_ ), being caught by Blighters was expected to some degree. The Strand was still their territory, flooding with Templars and Starrick’s thugs—still big enough that the Rooks didn’t stand a chance. Not yet, that is. He didn’t intend to let that continue for much longer. Meanwhile, Jacob had made sure not many could follow him to Freddy’s workshop, but it was never really out of the question that some of Starrick’s dogs would notice the visits and link it to what had happened with Mrs Duke—and it seemed a problem that now needed to be taken care of.

An idea flashed through his mind and he smiled, satisfied with himself. However, he didn’t speak his mind yet—not before he could have a little bit of fun at poor, overly worried Freddy’s expense. 

“You could join us, if you wanted to. We have great uniforms,” he joked, swaying hands to his own new attire, which he had recently acquired with the increasing income gathering in the train. Leather coat, top hat, embroidered vest made out of silk. Jacob could play the part of a gentleman, and that made him feel important. _This_ he really liked. 

Freddy glared at him and, for a second, it really seemed that his eyes laid on Jacob’s fancy clothes—as if he were surprised they looked so good on him, used to see him in less expensive rags. It faded swiftly before his gaze turned into a familiar, annoyed expression once more.

“I’m serious, Mr Frye. I only want to have a quiet and boring life, running my shop in peace. I don’t need gangs knocking on my door and threatening my establishment or my clients,” Freddy declared, massaging the bridge of his nose. He walked outside the counter, slightly hunching. “What would happen if some of them heard about this? Or saw those Blighters here? That’d surely be the end of it.”

Jacob gave him a strong pat on the back that startled Freddy.

“There, there, Freddy. You might be exaggerating, but…” His voice was carefree, but he hesitated before finishing. “But… since I may feel _partially_ responsible for your current predicaments, I have a proposition.”

Jacob beamed a winning smile—the kind that got him whatever he wanted. _Most_ of time.

Freddy shot him a dubious look, studying Jacob’s expression and body language with uneasiness. He folded his arms and sat on the edge of the counter. The frown in his brow didn’t disappear as he spoke.

“...Go on,” he muttered wearily, lips pursed in a thin line.

Freddy was probably right in having certain misgivings about any of Jacob’s plans or suggestions—he had been the cause of the man’s recent troubles, after all. In his defense, Jacob could argue he had also been the brains behind getting the money back for the repairs. Though that wasn’t the kind of method a person like Freddy (peaceful, quiet, _boring_ ) usually approved of. Fortunately, this time Jacob’s idea was a little bit more tame and less dependant of his abilities for brawling and punching.

He cleared his throat in anticipation, followed by a grand gesture of his arms. 

“My Rooks can keep an eye on you and your shop. Don’t worry, no uniforms,” he hurried to answer when he saw Freddy turning pale. “We’ll be discreet. But if we see any Blighters poking around, they’ll make sure the bastards _get_ the message,” he resumed, a confident smile over his face.

Freddy, on the other hand, shot him a disgruntled look.

“Mr Frye, I don’t think the solution to ‘too much criminal activity’ is adding _more_ ,” he complained, rubbing his temples. “Your Rooks and you are a gang as well, if I remember correctly,” Freddy finished, accusingly. 

The bell of a grandfather clock suddenly rang, giving Freddy a faint startle.

Jacob side eyed him, running his fingers through the shelves next to him. They were filled with new wares—all kinds of shiny, lustrous pocket watches in silver and golden colours, arranged inside their open cases for everyone to ogle. Thanks to the reparations, everything had bright new and clean aura, and Jacob decided to grab one silver watch and fiddle with it in his hand despite Freddy’s deadly glare from across the room.

“Very well. It’ll be really sad when the Blighters come here, asking questions you don’t have answers for, and they decide to wreck up the place—and I don’t think they are willing to repay, like _we_ Rooks,” Jacob smirked, the pocket watch hanging poorly from its chain tucked between his fingers.

He was quick to retrieve the watch before it actually fell on the floor, and put it back on the shelf inside its elegantly decorated velvety box. Freddy breathed out a sigh, his shoulders drooping. As he wandered around the room, Jacob saw his expression change from irritation to actual concern. Freddy pinched his nose, eyes closed shut.

With a heave, he mumbled, “I… I think I might need to sit down.”

Diligently, Jacob located a chair and dragged it to Freddy, who simply flopped down into it with a weak sigh, not paying much attention to his surroundings. He rested his elbows on his knees, face buried in hands as a muffled growl escaped his mouth.

Freddy’s mind was probably busy pondering the several ramifications of his current predicament. In Jacob’s language that meant one thing—he worried too much, that was all. Why did it matter if Rooks checked on him from time to time? He got the shop back and running—probably better than before, since now it was so pristine and tidied up even the Queen herself could be invited without standing out exceedingly.

Jacob couldn’t help a scoffed chuckle and he patted Freddy on the shoulder.

“Try to look on the bright side, Freddy,” he said, with an amused grin. “At least you can get new bouncers for your shop—at no cost.”

Jacob had expected another groan as a reply—he was becoming an expert in exasperating the poor clockmaker, and he would be lying if he said there was no joy in drawing frowns and growls from Freddy. He always acted so exasperated around Jacob, yet he had never kicked him out of the workshop. 

However, the answer came in the sound of a weak laugh that caught Jacob a bit off-guard. He threw a surprised glance to Freddy, who still hid his face behind pale hands while chuckling.

“Just my luck,” Freddy hissed, half amused, half despaired.

Jacob didn’t exactly know how to take it, unable to read Freddy for the first time—but he had a hunch the answer was, for now, a reluctant “yes”. He could work with that.

-

Twice a week, Abberline was accompanied in his workshop by someone who wasn’t christened (luckily) with the Frye last name.

Several months back, he had caught a small petty thief in his shop—one bony girl that could almost pass as a sweet, innocent angel. Clara O’Dea had been responsible for lifting money and a few watches from the shop, and when Abberline had caught her, grabbing the child by the arm, she had given him a distraught look. She had probably been overconfident this time, not used to being trapped.

Abberline had been close to call the police that afternoon—but, in the end, he hadn't. Maybe it had been a weakness or he had been right in showing compassion for a poor girl (unfortunately, one of too many that lived in London). After the incident with the Fryes’, Abberline had plenty of reasons to question his increasing liaisons with troublemakers. Yet he still was happy to have given Clara a chance that fateful afternoon: instead of calling the police, Abberline had offered her a part time job as his apprentice. He would teach her the basics about clockmaking, paying her a few coins, instead of calling the police—only if she accepted the deal.

She had been reluctant at first, and Abberline thought it showed how clever the little girl was—she wasn’t going to trust anyone’s word at first chance. So Abberline delivered on his promise and, after she had agreed to go the first day, he had taught her about the different parts which clocks were made of and how the mechanisms worked. Then, Abberline had given her a purse filled with coins—deftly placed inside a basket of food. Clara’s cheeks had flushed with red, a broad smile on her lips. She had thanked him with a faint voice and had run off the shop.

Two days later, she had come back. From that day on, she never tried to steal in Abberline’s Clockworks ever again.

After the accident, with the shop closed, Abberline had given the girl some weeks off (though he still paid visits to Babylon Alley and made sure she got her coin and basket). So Abberline was happy when she returned once he reopened, keeping them company as they both worked—in silence, which Abberline now regarded as a luxury after getting used to Mr Frye’s presence.

But then Clara O’Dea’s voice startled Abberline when she broke the precious silence of the workshop—that is, the silence constantly filled with the tickling of the clock’s hands. The little girl was usually quiet when working, but this time she raised her voice with a questioning tone.

“So it was Mr Frye who crashed into the shop, then?” She wondered out loud, lifting her eyes from the mechanism and tiny pieces of the clock she was disassembling and cleaning. “I have seen Rooks around lately too.”

When Abberline heard that coming from the girl’s mouth, he almost choked. He pulled his head out of the accounting books he had been revising and glanced at her.

“Clara, how have you come by those names?” he interrogated, clearly tense.

She replied with a shrug, her eyes still focused on the watch she was repairing.

“Oh, I know them. We have a deal. They help me and the other children of Babylon Alley.”

Abberline turned on his chair, scandalized.

“A _deal_?” he hitched. “Clara, you should remain far from the gangs and the likes of Mr Frye. It’s dangerous.”

Clara put down the watch, directing her eyes to Abberline. 

“But the Rooks are nice, Mr Abberline,” she explained, as if she were stating the obvious to a little child. Abberline always found it funny how she could come off so condescending for such a young girl. “They are liberating children in the factories of Lambeth and Southwark.”

Abberline had readied a well-thought answer of why working or allying with gangs was a bad idea—he talked from experience, after all. A reply he had swallowed with a choke after he realised what Clara had just said.

 _Liberating children?_ Abberline didn’t want to hold any prejudices—but Mr Frye didn’t strike him a social warrior who had came to London to help the downtrodden, poorer classes who suffered in factories day and night under the leash ruthless masters. Maybe her sister… but still. He shook his head in disbelief. “The Rooks? I don’t think that can be possible, Clara. They…” he trailed off, touching his beard and frowning deeply.

Cutting him mid-sentence, the girl raised her chin, hands on hips.

“You don’t have to believe me, Mr Abberline. But it’s the truth,” she declared, flatly.

Abberline blinked—both amazed and appalled.

He gulped, his mouth dry. “That… that sounds surprisingly well intentioned, I must admit. Never expected it... “ Abberline hesitated, unsure of what he actually meant. He heaved a sigh. “It seems that should be the police’s work. Not a gang.”

With a short shrug, Clara went back to the watch on the work table, leaning over the board while her tongue sticked out of her mouth.

“They rarely help, so that’s why we take care of each other—and rely on the help of associates, like the Fryes and their Rooks.”

 _Associates_. Abberline couldn’t help laughing, eyeing the little lass with tenderness.

Hands in pockets, he walked towards the desk Clara was using and stood beside her, examining how the young girl skillfully cleaned the tiny gears.

“When you talk like that, I have to remind myself you’re just a twelve year old,” Abberline mumbled, smiling.

She snapped her tongue. Clara was generally well-behaved and polite—but mentioning her young age was the perfect way to get under her skin. Clara probably had never took the chance to _be_ just a child—she had raised herself as a leader of London’s urchins. When Abberline thought about it, he felt a clenching uneasiness on his chest.

“Old enough to work, old enough to know who I deal with. Besides, Miss Evie is really nice. Just like you, Mr Abberline,”Clara added, coyly.

“Thank you, Clara,” Abberline chuckled, ruffling the girl’s hair. “What about Mr Frye? You don’t like him?” he asked after a beat of silence, curiously.

She stopped her hands, taking a finger to her chin.

“He’s alright, when he’s not being an arse,” she pondered, brow knitted.

That drew a cheery laugh from Abberline.

“Can’t argue with that,” he admitted finally with a sigh.

Clara smiled, looking up at him.

“Sometimes he comes by and plays football with us, or teaches some of the younger children how to defend themselves. So… he grows on you,” she said with a giggle, finishing up the cleaning with a few touches of the brush. “When you see him again, tell him Clara sends his regards.”

-

Lambeth was buzzing with activity at ten in the morning. The stench of the factories filled the thick air, and the damp streets were covered in white fog. As it was common in the last weeks of April, the rain had been constant and Abberline could feel the cold grabbing at his bones as he wandered the borough. Passers-by crowded the alleys and squares, old women busying themselves with grocery shoppings in several stalls littered all over the muddy roads. The Southbank didn’t look as polished or neat as the Strand, but Abberline found this part of the city lively—in spite of the roaring noises coming from factories, the piers in the Thames and markets. He glimpsed at his pocket watch, making sure he was on time for his appointment. He was to meet a client at his house in half an hour, but Abberline had decided to take a carriage and arrive a little bit earlier to enjoy the walk.

He inhaled the fresh air of the morning (filled with different kinds of not so pleasant smells, nevertheless) and resumed his walk, his eyes taking notice of a nearby square which looked more crowded than others. It was a small market, devoid of stalls and canopies—which were being replaced by several carriages that brimmed with wooden crates. Abberline stopped, the strange scene piquing his curiosity.

People surrounded the carriages and behind them, Abberline noticed a flash of green clothes. Blinking, he stared again open-mouthed.

It hadn’t been his imagination, a trick of his sight. Members of the Rooks, as their distinguishable clothes defined them, were handing out food from the different carriages a crates to the people who gathered around them flailing their arms and hands.

Abberline hesitated for a split second, then his feet moved towards the crowd.

He watched intently as people came empty-handed and left with packed goods under their arms. Most of them wore ragged clothes stained with filth, their bony faces dirtied up from the coal of the fumes. Workers from the factories, Abberline guessed—husbands, wives, children, elderly people. They all looked at the food with glistening, hungry eyes.

Absorbed by the scene, Abberline’s heart jumped when he heard the voice of an old woman beside him.

“Is this the queue, young man?” she chimed, a toothless smile on her wrinkled mouth.

Abberline smiled back and moved aside. “Oh, no, madam. I was just curious.”

“Me too. You see, I heard about these fellows from me neighbour, Mrs Dalloway, and she told me people were giving food near Glasshill Street every Thursday—not asking for a shilling! I couldn't believe it meself,” the woman explained, wrapping a blue shawl around her hunched shoulders.

Abberline shifted his eyes to the carriages and the crowd, speechless. “They don’t charge for anything?”

“That seems so, dearie. I think I could grab me something to fill the belly for the next days,” she added gleefully and limped towards the crowd as Abberline watched her leave with saddened expression.

It was easy to forget how many people in the city weren’t able to grab one meal a day, even if they hurt their backs working without a pause for countless hours. And here he was, faced not only with that regretful fact about London, but also with irrefutable proof that the Rooks—a street _gang_ , thieves, gamblers, brawlers—were doing something for the people who needed help the most. He frowned, moving away from the hubbub.

It had been easier just thinking that these Rooks and Mr Frye were simple thugs, even if they self-proclaimed to be _better_ than the Blighters. Abberline had believed they were mostly the same, the only difference being that Blighters had been for much longer in the city. Therefore, their activities were more ruthless and their control over London tighter. Meanwhile, these Rooks were newcomers he had had the (unfortunate) chance to meet first hand. Abberline had been sure that, in given time, they would be as cold-blooded and dangerous as Blighters. One of the reasons he had dreaded his present acquaintance with them.

They were, after all, gangs. They used violence and threats to achieve their goals, they stole, they smuggled goods, they beat up people who didn’t go along with them. That was their line of business.

Yet Clara had told him about the child workers, about Babylon Alley. And now he watched them dispatching free food for the poor. It wasn’t what he had come to expect. Not at all. For a moment, they didn’t resemble the blood-thirsty thugs he compared them to.

When Mr Frye had mentioned casually that they were helping London, it might have not been mere boasting.

Abberline realised he was starting to seriously consider these Rooks weren’t all _that_ terrible. Deep inside, he was certain he should feel uncomfortable by such a thought. Instead, he was slightly relieved.

He resumed his way, leaving behind the unexpected heroes in green surrounded by people, and his lips curled up in a brief smile.

-

Abberline hadn’t really given much thought to this, but despite it all he found himself at the entrance of the same fight club he had visited per Mr Frye’s request weeks back. It was brimming with people, both drunkards and brawlers looking for a good punch. Abberline had managed to forget the stench and now his senses were overwhelmed once more by the disparate mix of aromas. Surprisingly, this time they didn’t hit so badly and he almost received the smell of alcohol and sweat enthusiastically.

It wasn’t as if he had never thought of going back. Abberline had _enjoyed_ that evening—he couldn’t deny that to himself. It had been an exciting getaway from his routine. But now he simply had nothing to do there, so Abberline had dismissed it rapidly. When he wanted to relax and drink a beer, there were plenty of pubs and public houses in the Strand he could pay a visit instead. Certainly, going to a thugs’ den wouldn’t be the destination chosen by a proper gentleman.

Then Abberline had thought about his chat with Clara. About that morning in Lambeth and the old lady. If the Rooks weren’t _that_ thuggish, it wasn’t such an insane idea—or that was what his mind hammered. He might have even gone as far was bringing it up when Mr Frye came by, but strangely he had been missing lately. And so, Abberline went back and forth, undecided. Was he crazy to return to such a place? Was Abberline being simply careless, putting himself into actual danger?

In the end, that shy craving for more underworld adventures that lived inside his chest itched for too long, getting the better of him—and once the idea of returning sparked in his mind again, Abberline hadn’t been able to shut it down. So after closing down the shop’s doors, his feet started moving, guiding him to the address he had unconsciously memorised.

Truth was, Abberline was feeling quite fearless—a boldness he rarely found in himself under normal circumstances. Going all by himself to a place like that without any pretext (like getting his money back) was something he may have never done before.

Not that his circumstances had been _normal_ by a long shot in the past month.

With that in mind, Abberline resolved to indulge in a bit of improper behaviour for once. It’d be just a peek—going in, taking a pint and getting out back home as soon as possible. Then he would return to his quiet life, and forget about everything. 

That was the plan—which, of course, failed miserably.

“Freddy?” Abberline, sipping from his drink, heard the familiar voice behind him. 

He turned to face Mr Frye. The man looked like he had just stepped out of the fight ring—which was probably right. His cheeks were flushed and he was wearing a loose cotton shirt, completely open except for one lonely button Mr Frye’s lips drew a smirk.

“Do you spend all your evenings here, Mr Frye?” Abberline sighed, though he couldn’t help a smile.

Mr Frye leaned on the bar, wiggling his eyebrows at the waiter. Seconds later, a mug of beer materialised in front of him.

He looked back at Freddy with an amused expression all over his face. “Not just in this club. What I find more interesting is _you_ coming back—I thought this wasn’t your cup of tea.”

Abberline shrugged.

“Mood... swings,” he added, bashful. He decided it was time to change the topic and cleared his throat. “Are you fighting tonight?”

After gulping the beer in one take, Mr Frye wiped his mouth clean with the forearm and jerked his head towards the ring. Inside, four men had cornered another and were ready to give him a good beating. Outside the fighting ring, Topping checked his pocket watch constantly.

“Just taking break. I will go back for the next rounds,” Mr Frye explained, dropping the mug with a loud bang on the bar.

Out of nowhere (because he couldn’t really come up with a sensible reason for what he said), Abberline blurted, “Then I may make some extra coin tonight.”

He may have spent hours regretting his words and, generally, the carelessness he was showing that night if not for Mr Frye’s look of total astonishment. Had he been drinking the beer, he’d have spit.

Abberline had been sure he would receive a cocky answer, just as it so usually happened with the man. Over the nearly two months they had known each other (and after quite a rocky beginning), Abberline had come to realise Jacob Frye could be exhausting in a strange, charmingly way—which was the only explanation of why he (or anyone) still beared with his antics and brash behaviour.

However, what Abberline saw at that moment in Mr Frye’s eyes had nothing to do with the smug, overconfident rogue turned gang leader.

“You are betting on me?” Mr Frye hitched, trying unsuccessfully to sound nonchalant.

“Well, you certainly did very well last time,” he praised sincerely. “ And since I’m already here, might as well make the most of the night.”

Mr Frye recovered from the initial surprise fastly. Grabbing at the collar of his shirt, he flashed a broad grin. Abberline could swear he had even bit his lower lip, which made him _shudder_ for some reason.

“Believe me. I won’t disappoint, Freddy,” Mr Frye hissed and right after, his hand dropped a heavy pat on Abberline’s back.

Minutes later, Abberline had placed his bet and taken a seat in the upper floor of the club. From that position, next to the wooden banister, he had a clear view of the centre where the fighting was taking place. Topping had received Mr Frye with open arms, thrilled to see the star of his establishments. Well, at least from what Abberline had gathered from chatter around him. It seemed like Jacob and Evie Frye were uprising celebrities in London’s underworld, and he had caught a few mentions of Mr Frye’s accomplishments in several fight clubs around the city. From what Abberline had witnessed first-hand, he wasn’t surprised. 

As he watched Mr Frye’s performance in the ring, a waitress passed by and placed another pint on his table. Abberline almost didn’t notice, his eyes fixated on the spectacle that was watching Mr Frye burying the heel of his boot on a man’s abdomen with a powerful kick. Another fighter twice his height grabbed him from behind—only to be elbowed in the face by Mr Frye, drawing a scream of pain from the man’s mouth.

Abberline couldn’t quite put it into words, but somehow he found it... fascinating—although he wasn’t sure if it was the fighting or just Mr Frye’s fighting. His pupils dawdled on him for a few minutes, not even paying attention to the other men on the ring. Abberline observed intensely how the man’s face twisted every time he delivered a hit, frowning and focused on the fight. There was a unique sparkle in his green eyes whenever he had an enemy cornered, ready to inflict a _coup de grace_. Then Abberline would travel a bit down, tracing the bird of the tattoo with his eyes—hairy chest and muscles contorting with every movement of his body as he swam among the other fighters, with every punch he delivered or received.

Abberline sucked in a deep breath, and this time he could feel heat on his cheeks. He blamed it all on the alcohol. It was _definitely_ the alcohol and not him mooning over Mr Frye’s physique—naked torso, skin shining with sweat.

He shook his head, embarrassed and too aware of his train of thought. 

The show lasted for about twenty minutes. When Topping finally called off the rounds and claimed Jacob Frye as the winner (again), cheers and some faint jeering roared around the whole building.

Abberline followed Mr Frye with his sight. The man collected a bag from Topping and gave him a curt nod. Topping, on the other hand, looked like he was about to start bouncing and jumping. Frye did not wait to be surrounded by strangers and managed to slip by the growing crowd, reaching the wooden stairs for the second floor in a beat.

His eyes wandered through the tables, looking for Abberline. He hadn’t even made the effort of putting on a shirt or washing off some of the sweat and trails of blood from the fight. However, Abberline also noticed something else once Mr Frye found him and walked to the table.

A nasty blueish mark was surfacing between eye and cheek.

“You didn’t disappoint, but that black eye doesn’t look… healthy,” Abberline greeted as Mr Frye took a seat in front of him.

He dismissed his worries with a shrug.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had it worse,” Mr Frye clarified, cockly.

Abberline blew out a sigh mixed with laughter. “I probably don’t want to know the details. In any case, thank you for the 20 pounds, Mr Frye,” he tilted his head to the bag filled with money that lied between them.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, averting his gaze from Abberline. “And please, drop the pleasantries, Freddy. It’s just Jacob.”

That made Abberline a bit anxious, and he didn’t really know why. _Alcohol, again_ , he concluded.

“Does that mean we are friends now, Jacob?” Abberline snickered, partially hiding behind the pint as he drank.

 _Jacob_. It sounded… nicer.

Jacob gaped in feigned offense, taking a firm grip of his own drink. “Come on, Freddy! You can’t deny we’re partners in _crime_ ,” he added with a guffaw, gulping from the mug.

Abberline rolled his eyes, but he chuckled despite himself. A few days back, he may have been scandalized by such a turn of phrase. Now it didn’t really mattered to him. 

“Alright, Jacob. Here, have the money.” Abberline dragged the bag of coin away from him to Jacob. “Give it to Clara O’Dea when you meet her again. She sends her regards.”

This time, Jacob gave him a surprised and amused look when hearing the name of the little girl.

“Wait, you know that little urchin?” he chortled, grinning.

“She helps me in the workshop sometimes. I have taken her as an apprentice,” Abberline explained calmly, sipping from his beer.

Jacob stretched out, leaning back on the chair. Shamelessly, he moved his legs upwards, placing the dirty boots on the table.

“Aren’t you full of surprises tonight,” he mouthed with a voice that Abberline could only describe as strangely (and inappropriately) alluring.

A shiver ran through his spine and he gave another gulp to the beer.

Abberline cleared his throat, which felt dry despite the drink, and straightened up. “You too, it seems,” he said, pausing a beat to take delight in Jacob’s confusion. “Never took you for a man who would help orphans and play football with them. Clara told me about it.”

Jacob chuckled, and Abberline noticed his low gaze avoiding direct contact.

“Is Frederick Abberline complimenting me _twice_ this wonderful evening? That can’t be,” he snorted, tapping his fingers around the mug’s brim.

Abberline pushed the small bag again, making it fall on Jacob’s lap, and folded his arms over his chest.

“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that you almost ruined my source of income. My business is also threatened by your enemies, because of your indiscretion,” he pointed his finger at Jacob, eyebrow twitching up. “But… Maybe you aren’t such a bad sort as I thought,” Abberline added, not hiding a soft half smile.

Jacob let a out chortle, bringing a hand to his (still naked) chest.

“That is probably the nicest thing I’ve been told since I arrived in London,” he joked, but Jacob voiced it genuinely—as if behind the jibe there was an unmistakable truth to his words.

Even so, Abberline followed with the pretence and answered in a snort, smirking. “I wonder why it doesn’t surprise me,” he said ironically.

Jacob stamped the mug against the wooden board, grumbling.

“And now you’re ruining the mood. We were having a _moment_ , Freddy,” he charged, a mocking smile perching on his lips.

Abberline blew out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dealing with Jacob Frye could be exasperating under regular conditions—but now he would be outright insufferable, or so Abberline suspected. Simply hating him would have been so easy, like that not so far away day when he had crashed (literally) into the shop.

Jacob also made that difficult. 

“Just promise me you’ll give Clara the money, alright?” he interjected.

Jacob snapped his tongue, drinking in a gulp the last drops of beer from his mug. “Don’t fret, she’ll have it. Shall we meet again here, now that you’re a regular? We can move from partners in crime to drinking buddies,” he added with a clear laugh.

Abberline frowned, throwing him a stern look. “ _If_ there’s a next time, I’d rather drink in a public house. At least that’d make you put on a shirt.”

He didn’t like the note of mischief in Jacob’s smile, not one bit.

“Oh, am I making you blush, Freddy?” Jacob uttered in a deep voice, hands resting behind his head.

Now he _was_ biting his lower lip. That was Abberline’s cue to get up fast from the chair, dragging its legs on the wooden floor—and maybe a little _too_ fast, considering how much alcohol he had ingested in a short time.

The walls wobbled around him, legs fumbling. He shook his head and his sight became less blurry after some repeated blinking. Abberline coughed to conceal the sudden dizziness, putting on his hat.

“I’m done,” he declared curtly and moved away from the table with long strides.

On his way down, among the noise of high spirited chatter and music of flutes and violins, Abberline could distinguish Jacob yelling at him from above—telling Abberline to meet him next Tuesday at the Gallant Commodore.

Abberline made sure to remember the name, in spite of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a handful +6000 of nothing. I think I'll keep next chapters shorter because my brain is dead after this, and it'll probably end up being 5/6 chapters in the end. 
> 
> Thank you all for the nice comments and kudos <3 It's very appreciated!


	3. A Family Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I understand if you don’t want to share anything. Though, yes, I was bit curious,” he conceded with a sigh. “I have been thinking… putting pieces together… and it made me wonder if it’s got something to do with you and Miss Frye’s crusade to help London.”
> 
> “It is, Freddy. It’s also… complicated,” Jacob said finally, flashing a sorry smile at him. 
> 
> If he thought that would put an end to the conversation, he was _so wrong_. 
> 
> “Is it like… Freemasonry? A secret cult to a foreign God? Do you practice human sacrifices?”

“Good morning, Freddy.”

The familiar voice startled Abberline. Eyes flickered up from the newspaper, where he had been reading about Lambeth’s imminent closing with concern. The voice brought him back to the whirring noises of chatter and steam machines around the station. Next to the bench in which Abberline sat, Jacob Frye stood tall and dashing as always. 

Abberline smiled, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Jacob,” he called, tipping his hat to the man. “Here on _business_?”

He took a seat beside Abberline in the bench, spreading his arms along its back. 

Jacob threw him a smug half smile, his sight drifting across the crowds of citizens that walked outside of London Bridge Station. “If I were, would you like to know?”

Abberline folded the newspaper, placing in on his lap. The unexpected company would be more welcome than reading depressing news and accounts on the inks’ pages, after all. Abberline had to admit that their encounter at the fight club had eased any lingering tensions between them, their relationship becoming more amusing than exhausting. For the most part, that is.

“Not… really,” he chuckled, meaning those words. 

Even though his future self would probably consider it a mistake in judgement, Abberline had warmed up to the Rooks and what they did for the city—or, at least, to their being the lesser evil in London. They were still a gang, and so he wasn’t too keen on receiving the specifics of their activities. Abberline prefered to simply appreciate the results without actually confronting whatever methods they employed.

Jacob turned his head to face him, beaming a know-it-all expression all over. 

“I bet you were checking on Clara again. Such a mother hen, you are.”

Abberline nodded, a faint smile on his lips. It had been a dreadful shock when Miss Frye herself had brought the news about Clara’s sudden sickness to the shop, although she had assured him the girl had been taken care of. Abberline didn’t remember ever being so frightened. Up until some days back, he had paid visits to Babylon Alley almost twice a week. Children welcomed him with cheers—though Abberline knew it had more to do with the food he brought than his actual presence. He didn’t mind it.

Last week Clara had already told him to _stop worrying_ , but Abberline still had made a couple more trips to make sure she was alright and the children had plenty of food. He also tried to make sure none of them were taking any strange medicine or tonic. 

“She’s completely recovered, fortunately. But I keep thinking… How come those counterfeit tonics got so out of hand? If the police were doing their job, it shouldn’t be happening, especially not to children,” he griped, brow frowned deeply the more he thought about it. 

Jacob pursed his lips, throwing a side glance at him.

“That’s why we came to London, Freddy,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

He didn’t sound smug or teasing, as Jacob usually did. This time, Abberline noticed a sense of resolve behind it. However, something slipped in that wording that piqued Abberline’s interest.

“ _We_? As in… you and your Rooks?” he rebuked, not helping a smirk. “Thought there were no Rooks before you arrived in London.”

Jacob shifted in the bench and glared at Abberline, eyes squinted in indignation. 

“Stop being so nitpicky. You what I mean. I’ve heard _Evie_ ’s dealt with that, anyway,” he concluded, without hiding a certain bitterness when the name of his sister came up from his mouth.

Abberline felt utter relief at hearing that piece of news, but thought it wiser to not voice any questions regarding the matter. He was sensing a clear discomfort coming from Jacob’s tone with whatever had happened between him and Miss Frye.

So he settled for a simple and genuine, “Has she? That’s great news.”

Jacob answered with a knitted brow. 

One thing Abberline had learnt since they had met each other was to read Jacob’s face like a book, and more often than not it was simply too easy—like this time. He had probably quarreled with Miss Frye, yet Abberline didn’t feel compelled to pry further. 

After a beat of uncomfortable silence, only filled by the echoes of ramble and clamor typical of any train station, Jacob broke the ice—and his voice was relaxed again, no traces of fraternal resentment much to Abberline’s relief. 

“So, what are you doing there? Waiting for your train?”

Abberline’s shoulders hunched, breathing out a frustrated sigh. 

“My bus, actually—which is taking its goddamn time to arrive,” he mumbled, casting an annoyed glare at the passing carriages. “I need to be in the City by one o’clock. I have heard some people saying there’s been issues with the timetables for a few days,” Abberline added, checking the silver pocket watch hanging from his striped vest. 

Jacob bit his lip, hiding a smirk underneath. 

“Oh, the bus… You might want to reconsider that,” he said with a low chuckle. 

That’s when Abberline put one and one. Because, _of course_ Jacob Frye would be involved in whatever had happened to the omnibuses of London. Jacob had an excellent talent for trouble and mayhem—as he had experienced first-hand. But one thing was crashing into a plain shop like his, and another thing was crippling the whole transportation system. Which is what he suspected had happened from Jacob’s façade of utter innocence. 

“Damn it all, Jacob. What have you done to the buses?” Abberline growled, shaking his head. 

Jacob squinted at him. “That sounds suspiciously like an _accusation_ , Freddy. But, if you must know, I took care of a problem. Everything will be sorted out,” he ended in a radiant, confident smile. 

Abberline didn’t believe one single bit. 

“And then created _another_ problem? That’s why there’s no transportation?” he snapped, eyebrow raised. 

Jacob tilted his head, glancing at Abberline as if he was _clearly_ exaggerating the reach of his actions. 

“I have backup ready for you,” he blurted, getting up from the bench in a sudden jump. “Come, I just finished attending a friends’ matter and I’m sure he’d gladly lend us his carriage.”

Before Abberline had time to even think of an answer, Jacob rushed towards the arch that connected the station to one of its busiest streets. He yelled his name a few times, unsuccessfully. Dashing aside the newspaper, Abberline got up from his seat and walked in strides in the same direction Jacob had vanished. 

Once outside, it didn’t take long to find him next to an elegant carriage, whose car glinted under the pale light of the morning in green and blue shades. Jacob stood beside the horses, petting their snouts as they nickered. Abberline reached him in seconds, a bit more flustered than he would have liked to admit. 

“A friend, you say?” he heaved, breath slightly shaky. 

Jacob’s eyes moved away from the horses to Abberline, and he talked in an amused voice. “Mr Dickens.”

Abberline’s voice produced an unintended high pitch as he gaped at Jacob, who couldn’t help snickering at his reaction. “Wait, what?! Mr Charles Dickens?” 

“The very one,” he stated, smiling cockly.

Abberline shifted his eyes from Jacob to the carriage, still open-mouthed. “How do you even know Mr Charles Dickens, Jacob?”

“I was under the impression you were in a _hurry_ , Freddy.”

Rolling his eyes, Abberline glimpsed at the watch once more—and he didn’t really have minutes to waste on idle chat.

“Oh, bugger. Take the reins,” he sighed in defeat. 

Jacob showed his teeth in a broad smirk and jumped onto the driver’s seat without delay. Abberline followed him, casting nervous glances around him. When Jacob shook the reins, the horses neighed, then started to walk at a fast pace. 

Abberline gulped, sensing a knot in his throat. “Does he know about—this? We taking the carriage?”

He had dreaded the upcoming answer, because this being Jacob he had a pretty good idea of what it was going to be.

“No, but I’m sure he won’t mind it,” he replied nonchalantly, shrugging as his hands gripped firmly at the reins.

Abberline glowered at Jacob, not even paying attention to the increasing speed of the carriage while they crossed the bridge above the Thames—the scent of fishermen’s boats and the river’s dark waters filling the thick air. 

“You’re bollocks and I’m going to have a heart attack after this,” he mumbled under his breath, face hidden behind his hands. . 

Now it was Jacob’s turn to roll his eyes—and that he had the gall to even dismiss Abberline’s very realistic concerns was absolutely no surprise.

“Just give the directions, Freddy,” he growled, despite Abberline’s deadly glare. 

Despite it all, he had to bury the hatchet if he wanted to arrive on time to the client’s house. In Macbethian words, _the deed was done_ —so at least it’d be better to take advantage of it. Abberline would have time later that evening to cope with the fact that he had participated actively in the theft of none other than Mr Charles Dickens’ carriage.

He grumbled the directions to Jacob, who still seemed more amused than anything at the whole situation. Abberline scrutinised him in the brief moments of silence, as the carriage passed in a rush through busy and cluttered streets when they entered the borough, wondering how a man like Jacob had managed to be acquainted with one of London’s most famous people. 

That was probably a story for a different day, and he’d make sure sure to interrogate him on their next meeting at the Gallant Commodore. 

“And here we are!” Jacob announced once the carriage stopped in front of the building Abberline had indicated previously. “Ten minutes early, on time for your appointment.”

Abberline settled for a side glance and stepped out the carriage, adjusting the hat on his head once he stood on the cobblestone. 

He looked upwards to meet Jacob’s face again, and let out a low grumble. “I suppose I should thank you… if we just hadn't stolen Mr Dicken’s carriage.”

Jacob opened his eyes wide in mock disbelief. “Freddy! Such ungratefulness.”

Abberlined tried hard, but finally a soft, exhausted chuckle escaped from his mouth.

“Promise me you’ll return Mr Dickens’ carriage, will you?” he asked with a begging look.

Jacob nodded, snapping his tongue. 

“I swear. Now don’t be such a fusspot and go to your meeting—see you tomorrow!” he said before riding off into the distance with a flick of the reins, the hooves of the horses cackling against the cobblestone as he tapered off into the distance.

-

Two days later, Jacob hit the Gallant Commodore after his job with one of the Templar headquarters in the Strand paid well—and breaking the neck of one of Starrick’s dogs always put him in a drinking mood later. So he stopped by the pub with a few other Rooks, comfortably taking a seat inside the establishment in one of its compartments. While the others were getting completely pissed at the bar, Jacob drank from his glass in slow sips, sight passing through the clients who listened to a woman singing on the opposite corner. He kept an eye on the four Rooks that had gone with him, in case anyone started to clash glasses onto the floor (had happened before, and Jacob didn’t fancy the idea of being banned from more pubs).

Then he saw the familiar figure at the doorstep, marching directly towards Jacob as soon as he spotted him in the crowd of people and tables. 

“Guess who came by the shop today?” Freddy chimed in a strangely good-humoured tone as he walked by Jacob. He took a seat in front of him, a wide smile running from each side of his hairy face. 

Jacob already knew the reason behind it, but chuckled coyly and tapped his fingers on the table. 

“Oh, was that the Queen? Tough old bird must be running out of _time_ at her age.”

Freddy, taken aback, glared at him in distress. His head shook, eyes looking for proof that no one had heard Jacob’s words. Fortunately for Freddy’s health, the patrons seemed more concerned with their spirits and private conversations. 

“What? Bloody hell, no!” he yelled in a low pitch, frowning. “Don’t ever say anything like that in public, you fool. Anyway, it was your acquaintance, Mr Charles Dickens.”

Jacob’s devilish smile broadened while he tried to sound surprised.

“He paid you a visit, didn’t he? Good to know. I wonder how he learnt of _Abberline’s Clockworks_ …” he pondered out loud in mock, rubbing his chin with faked interest. 

Freddy rolled his eyes as an answer, yet still seemed to be exultant. 

“I know, I know. No need to rub it in,” he complained. “And… thank you, Jacob,” Freddy hissed, his lips drawing a little smile. 

A soft red hue covered his cheeks and—damn it all, Jacob found it unbearably cute. Which Freddy wasn’t supposed to be, because he could actually play the part of a grumpy old man most of the time despite him being only a few years his senior. 

Jacob decided to simply raise his eyebrows, smirking. “Noticed you were a fan from your reaction the other day. Are you now confident he had no problem with us taking the carriage? I bet you haven’t slept since then.”

Freddy lowered his gaze bashfully, fidgeting. 

“Well, hearing it from him did help to lift my worries,” he smiled, scratching the back of his head.

Jacob threw him a glance, chuckling under his breath. “Oh ye of little faith.”

Freddy decided it was time to take care of his own dry throat and held up a finger until the barman noticed him. The ale didn’t take long to arrive, and Jacob asked for another one with a nod when the waiter approached their table. 

After a long gulp from his beer, Freddy straightened in his seat and leaned in. 

“He told me something else,” he muttered mysteriously. 

Jacob shot up his eyebrows. “What else?”

“That you and your sister have lent a hand to some of his Ghost Club’s business.”

Oh, _that_. Jacob squinted at Freddy, lips parted. “Yes…? What of it?”

He was enjoying taking the time to reach his point, sipping again from his drink. He brushed his bushy beard distractedly, averting Jacob’s glare.

The younger Frye already feared where this conversation was leading up, and he was not looking forward to it. 

Freddy help up a finger, tapping his chin. “His phrasing was quite interesting. Something along the lines of the usefulness of ‘the Fryes’ skills and their obscure organization’. He asked me if I was a fellow _brother_.”

“He clearly meant the Rooks, Freddy,” Jacob answered, lips pursed in a thin line, even though he knew that wouldn’t work with Frederick Abberline.

It didn’t.

“At this point, the Rooks hardly qualify as obscure, Jacob,” Freddy shot back, folding his arms with a smug smirk—like he had just caught Jacob in a lie during a cross examination of sorts. 

Part of Jacob wanted to tell him, because he knew Freddy was as thirsty for a good mystery as he was for a good fight. It’d also feel good to just be direct and honest with him. He didn’t care about the secrecy and traditions of the Brotherhood—but there was probably one tenet Jacob did consider from time to time, and that was the one about not endangering innocent lives. 

Or was compromising the innocent? Some grandiloquent statement Evie would remember perfectly, but Jacob thought learning shit by heart was a complete waste of his good time. But no matter the words, telling Freddy anything would mark him as target (more so than he was now). And he couldn’t risk him any more, because Freddy was no longer the annoying clockmaker whose shop he had crashed in months ago. 

So Jacob bit his tongue and snorted. 

“You’re too curious for your own good, Freddy,” Jacob hissed, drinking from his ale. 

Freddy raised his arms, head tilted to the side. 

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to share anything. Though, yes, I was bit curious,” he conceded with a sigh. “I have been thinking… putting pieces together… and it made me wonder if it’s got something to do with you and Miss Frye’s crusade to help London.”

Freddy glared at him nervously, unable to hide the glint of excitement behind his brown eyes. Jacob almost laughed at the sight. The man had most likely spent his afternoon busying his mind with this, and Jacob wondered what kind of (crazy) assumptions and conclusions he had reached. 

“It is, Freddy. It’s also… complicated,” Jacob said finally, flashing a sorry smile at him. 

If he thought that would put an end to the conversation, he was _so wrong_. 

“Is it like… Freemasonry? A secret cult to a foreign God? Do you practice human sacrifices?” Freddy blurted with a laugh, leaning in over the table while his fingers drummed excitedly on the board. 

Jacob was sure he had never seen the man so enthusiastic about absolutely anything—not even clocks, which one would assume were his passion since, well, he made them for a living. 

“ _Freddy_...” Jacob spat, jerking his head with narrowed eyes. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he added, but then couldn’t help himself and kept speaking, hiding a chuckle. “Though Evie told me they used to cut one finger from your hand.”

Freddy’s eyes lighted up like two burning suns, and his lips tried to contain a thrilled, broad smile. He didn’t quite manage. 

“Wait, seriously?” he hitched. “So it _is_ a secret organization?”

Jacob let out a low groan, cursing his choice of phrase. He held up a finger to his mouth and leaned in the table as well, getting closer to an overexcited Freddy. 

“Be quiet,” he hushed, grumbling. Then his voice hesitated for a few seconds, until he thought Freddy’s interest could be shut down with a simple acknowledgement. “Remember when I told you the Blighters might have come to ask you question you don’t have answers for?” Freddy nodded. “This is what I was talking about. The less you know, the safer you are.”

Of course, Freddy didn’t stay quiet and opened his mouth to formulate a reply. 

“Alright. But…”

 _For fuck’s sake, Freddy_ , Jacob thought in frustration. He really never knew when to _stop_ , so Jacob pressed a finger to Freddy’s lips.

“It’s a... family calling,” Jacob hissed, as he saw Freddy struggling to react (cheeks redder now). Then he removed the finger and smirked. “London is rotten inside. My sister and I are doing the cleaning. I told you we came to help the city.”

Freddy gaped and didn’t move, squinting at Jacob. Then he fixed his eyes at the bottom of his ale, who wasn’t finished yet. For a second, Jacob thought himself victorious—the same feeling he would experience when being nearly gunned down by a close shot. 

He had never thought of introducing Freddy to the Assassins. He wasn’t like their other associates around the city, the only element linking them being that nosy Clara O’Dea—which had been mum about the whole subject, probably at Evie’s request. 

Freddy was, after all, a simple clockmaker—nothing more. He couldn’t bring contacts, intel, spies. He didn’t even know what the bloody Templars were. 

However, he was definitely one thing—a little _shit_ who couldn’t just let it go. 

“And who decides what needs cleaning?” He asked after what had been a pleasant silence, filled with the sweet voice of the female singer on the other side of the pub. 

Jacob growled and rolled his eyes again. “You don’t know when to bleeding stop, do you?

Freddy’s only answer was a soft tittering. Jacob frowned and felt his resolve weaken. 

“You just need to look around,” he finally said, swaying the mug in his hand to their surroundings. “This city is not under the control of the people you think it is. The Rooks are our armed hand, just as much as the Blighters have their own hidden master. And _that’s it_.”

That wasn’t it. Not by a long shot.

There was a silence. A silence where Jacob swore he could hear the gears inside Freddy’s brain working nonstop. The man was lost in thought, gazing helplessly at the bottom of his (now empty) mug of ale. He knitted his eyebrows together, eyes almost squeezed shut. 

Jacob could feel the insistent tapping of his feet under the table, and he was about to tell him to stop when Freddy straightened his back, holding up a hand in the air.

“Crawford Starrick,” he mumbled, pride swelling in his voice as he read Jacob’s confirmation in his deadly glare. “There were rumours, you know. When the Blighters showed up years ago, they mostly disturbed Starrick’s rivals in his many businesses. He has always come clean in front of the press. But still… it looked fishy,” he smiled, all too pleased with himself. 

“You’re also too fucking smart for your own good, Freddy,” Jacob sneered, yanking Freddy’s perfectly laced tie across the table to pull him in closer. “Keep this to yourself. Don’t ever speak of it,” he whispered into his ear, to which Freddy answered with a short nod.

Still, his eyes glinted with the thrill of someone who knows that has uncovered a great discovery.

_-_

Abberline fixed on the piece of work lying on the desk. Every edge was crimped with ornaments in brilliant gold, while the box itself had some blue-green hues. He had opened it, placing the jewel on top aside and focusing on getting the intricate engine inside to make it work. The job required little effort since it was but a simple carriage clock, and Abberline would have finished quite earlier had he not been so fascinated with the idea of being in house on rails.

Jacob had mentioned it before—that he and his sister kept a train, taken from the Blighter’s leader in Whitechapel no less, as their home and headquarters. Abberline had thought he was just exaggerating, thinking such a hideout would draw too much attention. It’d probably be just a modest train to carry (smuggled) cargo, where they incidentally happened to sleep.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

Chance and fate had taken him to the place itself that morning, when Jacob had asked him to have a look at a precious carriage clock (a trophy, he had said) they kept in the train so he could repair it. One clock he could have brought back to the shop, Abberline thought—but it seemed like Jacob was just eager to prove him wrong regarding his dismissal of the train. He did find pleasure, with a smug smile all over his face, in Abberline’s astonished expression as the train made its stop at St Pancras Station and they went inside. 

Then, Jacob had proceeded to show him around, from the bar crowded with Rooks (who cast some curious glances at the unexpected clockmaker) to the bed car where they kept a small study. Abberline suspected this was Miss Frye’s area, if the tidiness and neatness it transpired were any indication. 

However, he had taken a particular interest in the board that hanged from the wall of the main car. They had conveniently covered it with a white sheet, something that didn’t stop Abberline from peeking curiously at one of the corners that sticked out. A portrait, and different pieces of papers with unreadable scribbling. Did this have any relation to their “secret organization”? Targets? Intelligence on Mr Starrick’s activities? He refrained the urge to ask Jacob—at least for now. 

Abberline shook his head and stopped staring at his surroundings, filled with books, strange objects of every kind (he could swear there was a black flag, the _pirate_ kind) and pieces of paper neatly piled up around the desk. Focusing again on the task at hand, Abberline adjusted the glasses on the crook his nose and buried himself once again inside the small machinery of the beautiful carriage clock.

Soon after, he closed the box and fixed his stare on the hands of the clock. They moved, followed by the familiar tickling sound and Abberline gave an approving nod to the object. He placed his tools one by one back on a black suitcase and checked that everything was in order, just as he had found the desk when Jacob had left him there by himself to work on the clock.

Putting on his coat and hat again, Abberline grabbed the suitcase and walked towards the door that connected with the main carriage, almost tripping on his feet as the train took a turn to the left. Living here was something he found enthralling—but it definitely had its drawbacks, and standing straight seemed to be one of them.

He raised his hand to slide the door open and passed over to the next carriage quietly, the sound of his arrival muffled by the clattering and whistling of the train.

The twins didn’t notice his presence and Abberline was about to announce himself when he saw they were deep in conversation—Jacob holding a letter between his fingers.

“A dinner invitation,” he enunciated, eyes watching intently at the paper on his hand. 

Miss Frye, who was sitting on the couch next to a safe, looked up from the book on her lap and glared at her brother with both curiosity and concern—or at least that was Abberline’s impression, who didn’t dare to interrupt and stood beside the door. 

“And with whom are you dining this evening?” she asked amusedly, a quirk to her lips. 

Jacob took his gaze off the piece of paper and stared at her. “Maxwell Roth.”

Abberline noticed how Miss Frye’s face twisted at the mention of said name, which sounded vaguely familiar to him and couldn’t quite put it why. 

“The leader of the Blighters? You’re not going,” she said, finishing her sentence in an statement and not a question. 

Aberline froze and pressed his mouth shut. _Leader of the Blighters_? That didn’t sound good. 

Jacob rolled his eyes, throwing aside the letter onto the mess of a nearby table. “Of course not.”

Miss Frye gave Jacob the same look he’d have used—one of complete and total disbelief. She then closed her book with a loud noise and got up from her seat. When she was about to reach the door, probably returning to her chambers in the bed car, she realised Abberline’s body was in the middle and looked at him in surprise.

“Ah, Mr Abberline. I assume you finished?” she said, bowing her head with a smile.

“I did. The clock is completely functional now, Miss Frye,” he smiled back. 

“Thank you. How much do we owe you for your time and work?”

Abberline hurried to shake his head, holding up both hands in the air. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take the ride as payment.”

Miss Frye gave him a nod, smiling again, and Abberline moved aside to make way for her. She grabbed the door swiftly and slid it open.

“Very well. Then excuse me, Mr Abberline. Now it’s my time to do some work,” she said before disappearing, letting in all the echoes from the city outside as the train continued to move. 

Abberline stood there, blinking and quietly contemplating the bookshelves filled with trinkets among tens of book—and he produced a low gasp when he glimpsed a first edition of _Oliver Twist_. Lost in thought as he was, Abberline didn’t notice Jacob’s steps behind him.

“Well, Freddy, I have a dinner to attend. Want to share a carriage? I can drive you home.”

Abberline startled a bit, then turned to face Jacob. He was putting on his leather coat, adjusting it by the lapels—and Abberline notice he smelled, well, quite nice. It was a mix of soap and leather and coal, which should have been a terrible combination in itself. But coming from Jacob, it felt balmy. 

Abberline cocked his head to the side, eyebrows shot up. “I thought you said to Miss Frye you weren’t going?”

Jacob crooked his lips into a mischievous smirk. “You were eavesdropping? Naughty.”

“I just happened to be here… unnoticed,” he answered with a shrug, but couldn’t help feeling like a child who had been caught on some misdeed.

Jacob chuckled and pat him on the back. “It’ll be our little secret, right?”

Abberline held his breath, chewing on his tongue. He knew it wasn’t his business, especially since that had been a private conversation, and he was happier ignoring anything that had to do with gangs wars. But being invited by the leader of the rival gang you’ve been decimating looked like a trap, at best. So Abberline couldn’t shut his mouth.

Jacob was about to walk away, and Abberline just acted on impulse—giving him a soft tug on the elbow. Jacob turned to him, slightly surprised.

“Just be careful,” he hissed, flashing a shy gaze at Jacob. 

Abberline didn’t know if Jacob’s expression came from the brief touch or from his warning, but for a second his eyes looked a bit more vulnerable than ever. 

It faded quickly, replaced by a cheeky smile. 

“I’m always careful, Freddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No, you're not, Jacob.)
> 
> Once again, I really want to thank you all for reading and commenting/kudoing. It always puts a smile on my face <3 
> 
> This chapter took longer to write, but real life has been a bitch these past weeks—so I’m sorry if it feels a bit bland :( 
> 
> In the game, Freddy always knows about the Assassins and seemed mildly aware of what’s going on. But I noticed in this AU that wasn’t the case… and I didn’t really like the idea of him being completely kept in the shadows about Jacob and Evie’s mission (especially later on when shit will get real). So basically, this is what this chapter accomplishes and that’s about it. 
> 
> He’s already seen Jacob kill, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Spice of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you _want_ to be a clockmaker, then?” he said, shifting his stance. “I bet with your gut feeling and analytical skills, you’d have made a great policeman,” Jacob added, followed by a soft chuckle. 
> 
> To his surprise, Freddy produced what seemed a sad laughter—which wasn’t the answer Jacob had intended.

Jacob swept his eyes across the shelves, which displayed an extensive collection of clocks. From relics that had seen better days to elegant pieces decorated with intricate carvings, all those clocks were discards left abandoned on the workshop. The pale afternoon sun brought to light their layers of dust, hundreds of particles floating around the whole room. Sometimes Jacob wondered how the hall of the shop could look so neat, while this backroom seemed to be owned by a completely different person. 

Today, however, he had another question in mind as he looked at the collection rubbing his chin.

“Why a clockmaker?” he asked, disrupting the quiet rhythm of several working clocks ticking in unison. 

Freddy looked up from the workbench, glasses hanging from his nose loosely. He glanced at Jacob confused.

“Beg you pardon?”

Jacob turned on his heels, and pointed his thumb at the dusty shelves of dead clocks. “Why did you become a clockmaker? I thought you were a classic, boring chap when we met. But you’ve gotten yourself in too much trouble to be just _that_.”

“Thanks to you, I might add,” he huffed, leaving his tools on the desk as he brushed his hands off his cotton shirt. “But you could say it was also a… family calling, too. My father inherited the business from my grandfather and so on.”

With a light strut, Jacob walked towards him and rested his shoulder against the shelves above the workbench. Folding his arms, he stared at Freddy inquisitively. 

“Did you _want_ to be a clockmaker, then?” he said, shifting his stance. “I bet with your gut feeling and analytical skills, you’d have made a great policeman,” Jacob added, followed by a soft chuckle. 

To his surprise, Freddy produced what seemed a sad laughter—which wasn’t the answer Jacob had intended.

“I did want to be a policeman, you know. For a time,” Freddy explained, elbows resting on the edge of the workbench with a downcast look. “My parents weren’t too happy about me coming to London to enlist the Met, or leaving the family business. So I settled for the clockmaker’s life. Could be worse.”

Jacob stared at him, waiting for Freddy to go on. “Yet here you are in London. There must be a great story behind that, right? Ran away?” 

But Freddy remained silent, looking more dejected than before. Only then Jacob realised that, maybe, he was tripping on a delicate matter and should have simply shut up. Freddy scratched his head, taking a deep breath as he desperately tried to avert his friend’s gaze. 

Jacob was about to speak out when Freddy interrupted him. 

“I married a woman. She died two months later. After that, well, I decided to finally move here. I suppose I needed that kind of change more than ever. So here am I,” he finished, gesturing at the room and himself. 

Jacob’s body freezed, and found himself at a loss of words. That was the furthest from a _great story_ (and now he cursed himself and his perseverance). He had expected a tale of rebelliousness, or at least something to do with overcoming his family’s expectations (a sentiment he could relate to). The answer had differed from whatever Jacob may have expected, and now he felt unable to react accordingly. 

There weren’t words or platitudes that seemed appropriate. He couldn’t even think about what people told him or Evie after their father’s passing, since they had grieved in silence. Only them and George to mourn the famed Ethan Frye. Thinking about that wasn’t helping to clear his mind, either—and Freddy deserved better than awkward silence. However, truth was, Jacob had never been the right person to keep close by if you needed cheering. At least if said cheering up didn’t involve ignoring the subject and getting blissfully pissed. Otherwise, all his wit and cockiness dissolved into nothing.

And that’s exactly what happened at that moment. 

Jacob struggled to answer, gaping, and finally could only mutter a bland, “I’m... sorry, Freddy.”

“It’s been nearly four years now, do not worry about condolences,” he reassured, flashing a sad smile at him. 

Jacob shook his head, gazing down. “I shouldn’t have pried, either way. This is where I usually rely on Evie to… you know,” he motioned his hand, trying to finish the sentence.

“It’s alright, Jacob,” Freddy repeated, now a bit merrier. “Let’s just hit the pub after I finish this, what say you?”

Jacob nodded, patting Freddy on the back. “Drinks are on me.”

One hour later, both men sat in front of each other at their usual spot in the Gallant Commodore. The barman received them with a warm nod and they didn’t have to wait much longer to have two mugs appear on the table, flooding with ale to their brim. Drops spilled over the table as they toasted the mugs together with a loud clank. 

Alcohol made Freddy chatty, and he recounted tidbits about his late wife with a melancholic glance over his eyes. Martha, as that had been her name, and Freddy had met one year before they were happily married. His proposal had been disastrous, as he recalled, but Martha was the sweetest lass and she had agreed, all giggles and coy glances. Unfortunately, their newfound happiness was to be brief, and soon later tuberculosis had claimed her. 

Under other circumstances, Jacob would have felt mostly uncomfortable hearing a drunken man (because by that moment Freddy was completely inebriated, while he was still tipsy) mourning his deceased partner. But this was Freddy, and the feeling had more to do with genuine sadness over his friend’s grief than his own discomfort. So he allowed Freddy time to vent off and to drink away. Jacob thought that, probably, the man hadn’t had many chances to just let it all out. 

That was as much as he could do—listening (actually listening, not pretending), paying for more pints and eventually trying to draw a laugh from him as they walked back to Freddy’s shop. By that time, Jacob had abandoned his tipsy state, legs slightly shaky as both men strutted through alleys slurring and singing popular tunes and shanties in their drunken stupor. 

How they managed to arrive without getting stabbed, robbed or lost to the shop was a question to the ages, but they did—even though Jacob couldn’t remember a bloody thing after they left the Gallant Commodore. 

Then he woke up (morning or afternoon, wasn’t sure and didn’t care), squinting his eyes. The light coming from a nearby window became too unbearable to ignore, making his head ache even more. With a throbbing pain on his temples and a throat dry like sand, he coughed and shifted his position.

And that was when a hungover Jacob noticed two important details.

One: he was lying on a coach, but not his usual one back at the train. 

Two: there was a heavy weight over his chest, and when Jacob managed to open his eyes completely... he found Freddy snoring softly, head buried on the crook of his neck and arm hanging on the side of the couch.

-

Freddy pranced hastily around the small living room, all flustered cheeks and shaky voice. Jacob sat on the springy sofa cross-legged and unpreoccupied, following the man’s comings and goings with his eyes.

The younger Frye watched as Freddy tried to scrub up the remains of the drunken night out. He went inside his bedroom several times until he found a tie he deemed acceptable, trying to lace it as fast as his hands allowed him. 

The grandfather clock that stood in the corner rang and Freddy gave it a dread look. “Oh, bother. It’s past eight. I—I need to hurry.”

Jacob smiled, tapping his fingers on the back of the couch. “Sure you want to work today, Freddy? You look like shite.”

Freddy turned to him, just to prove what Jacob had claimed—there were dark bags under his eyes, his hair undone and wild even though he had tried to brush it to no success. 

“It’s not that I _want_ to, I _need_ to,” Freddy barked, buttoning up his shirt and vest. They were wrinkled but clean… and reeked of alcohol. He smelled it and his face twisted. “Sod it all.” Then Freddy raised his eyebrows at him. “Why are you still here?”

Jacob shrugged and said, “Admiring the show,” not paying attention to the deadly glare from the clockmaker.

Freddy gave up on the tie, hands running through his ruffled hair anxiously. “Jacob, I’m serious. This was… inappropriate and embarrassing. I apologise for my behaviour and, now, I’d be happy to pretend nothing happened and return to work—and I’m already behind schedule with…”

Jacob stood up, laughing, and grabbed Freddy by the shoulders. “ _Freddy_ , calm down. We were drunk and we took a nap. That’s all. End of story.”

“I know, I know,” he huffed, slouching. “But I have never conducted myself in such… an improper manner. In fact, I’ve never gotten so drunk before,” he tittered, easing the tension from his muscles.

Jacob took his hands off the man and shook his head. “Then you have to thank my influence. It’s healthy to have unrestricted _fun_ from time to time, you know.”

Freddy sighed exaggeratedly. “Very well, I’ll take that in mind—and now _get out_ and let me open the shop.”

With a pat on the back, Jacob complied and to Freddy’s surprise he went directly to the window. Flashing a last devilish smile, he opened it up and jumped to the street without looking down.

-

Weeks later after their shared hangover morning, Jacob climbed up through the same window. It was almost midnight when Abberline heard the soft knock, which he ignored at first. After three or four repeatedly knocks on the glass, he turned his head from the mirror he was using—and there he was.

Jacob Frye hanged from the sill, merging with the shadows of the lamp lit street. 

The wooden floor creaked under his weight when he came inside the living room, stamping his boots on it with a loud thump. 

“Good night, Freddy,” he announced, removing the cowl that covered his head and casting aside the coat. It fell onto the sofa, lying uncaringly on its arm. 

This wasn’t the first time Jacob had visited at ungodly hours, although he did use to come at earlier times. 

Abberline acknowledged him with a growl and a nod, and returned to his original spot in front of the mirror in the small bathroom. The razor had slipped into the sink, lost underneath the white soap bubbles. He hissed a low pitched “damnit” and looked down at his hand, its palm bandaged. The pain had lessened, but it kept stinging. 

Jacob materialized under the door’s jamb, leaning his shoulder against it. “What happened to your hand?”

“Work accident,” he mused, retrieving the razor from the water with his good hand. He tapped the blade at the sink’s brim. 

Jacob lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me a clock tried to kill you.”

“Hilarious,” Abberline shot Jacob a glare from the corner of his eye. 

Raising the razor, the clockmaker tried to resume his task—which was proving more unsuccessful the more he continued. Shaving with one hand, late at night and with only the flame of a few candlesticks as main source of light was, apparently, quite difficult. It was a miracle he hadn’t cut his own throat by accident, yet there he was. _Stubbornly_ trying. 

He could feel Jacob’s gaze upon him, as he scratched the cutting edge of the blade under his chin. 

Abberline stopped. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your nightly visit?” 

“Oh, the usual,” he shrugged. “Evie has been slightly more insufferable with me lately, so I didn’t feel like forcing my presence back in the train.”

He sighed, sinking the razor into the warm water. “What have you have done this time?” 

Jacob snapped his tongue. That was enough evidence to get an idea of why he sounded so snarky when mentioning Miss Frye. To further prove Abberline’s suspicions, Jacob spoke. 

“Me? Getting rid of corruption from the Bank of England. Nothing, apparently. Just doing what we were supposed to do when we arrived at London.”

The razor hanged mid-air, frozen. 

“Wait… you are behind that Twopenny disaster from last week?” Abberline gaped, eyebrows drawn up in confusion. 

On the other hand, Jacob cocked a proud smile. “Rightly so.”

Abberline put down the razor for a moment, and his fingers ran to the bridge of his nose. A coarse sigh escaped his mouth, his eyes glaring intently in Jacob’s direction. 

“Well, nobody’s going to miss the governor now. However…” he paused, taking some air, “you are aware the economy of the whole Empire was on the brink of ruin, right?”

Shifting his stance from the doorstep, Jacob gestured at him. 

“Details, Freddy. It wasn’t me who stole those plates,” he clarified, emphasizing the pronoun. “But don’t ever worry, Evie already snapped about it and how she had to fix something _I_ didn’t cause.”

Miss Frye again. Every time Jacob had mentioned his sister in the last past week, a feeling of resentment poured from each word and syllable. Their relationship had turned more and more strained, as far as he could tell from his chats with Jacob. Not wanting to meddle with family issues, Abberline hadn’t pronounced himself on the matter and had resigned himself to simply listen to Jacob.

But maybe (just maybe), Jacob would be open to some sensible advice now—and so he gave it, foolishly hopeful. 

“Jacob, have you ever thought about talking to her?” Abberline declared, looking at him in the eye. “Instead of, you know, complaining to me. Which I don’t mind, but you need to sort these… problems out with your sister. Before you both regret it.”

Jacob’s answer didn’t take long. It wasn’t surprising either.

He growled and puffed his cheeks, turning back to Abberline. “For fuck’s sake, Freddy. I didn’t come here of all places to be lectured.”

Abberline sighed, frowning, and resumed his shaving in front of the mirror. 

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, he finally asked, “Alright. What have you been up to this late?” 

Jacob returned to the door’s jamb, eyeing his fingernails distractedly. “Causing a bit of trouble to our friend Starrick.”

“With your Rooks?” Abberline wondered, scraping the blade along his jaw carefully to avoid shaving all his beard.

Jacob answered flatly with a “Maxwell Roth, actually.”

Abberline felt the razor cutting an inch of skin as he gave a slight startle. He remembered that name, and it didn’t bode well.

“Are you bleeding serious, Jacob?” he squealed.

Jacob lifted his shoulders, unaffected. “He wants to bring Starrick down. I want to bring Starrick down. Where’s the problem?”

This was a new level of recklessness and irresponsibility, even surprising for Jacob. Abberline flashed him a distraught glare, unwounded palm pressing against his forehead in exasperation.

“Where _isn’t_ , you mean,” he barked. “I may not be a criminal mastermind, Jacob, but you have been killing Blighters for months. Doesn’t that… bother him?”

Jacob curled up a lip.

“ _Surprise is the spice of life_ , he said. Seemed like a no-brainer: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Roth happens to be both resourceful and supportive of my methods, which is a nice change, by the way” he chided, summoning a knowing look. 

Abberline’s brow deepened, stares clashing between them in an unspoken argument that could to brew in a flicker. Finally, it was Freddy who decided to back down. It was late, he was tired and wasn’t in the mood to antagonise Jacob. The man could bloody damn do whatever he thought best, and if Miss Frye had not been able to convince him otherwise, Abberline didn’t stand a chance.

“Just trust me on this one, hm?” Jacob added to ease the tension, in a more agreeable tone than Abberline was used to hear from him. 

Blowing out a tired hiss, Abberline nodded slowly. “Very well. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to finish this,” he motioned to his face, wet from the soap and warm water in the sink. 

Jacob drew up an eyebrow, condescending. “By _this_ , I hope you mean getting rid of that bush you wear for a beard.”

“What’s wrong with my beard now?” Abberline exclaimed in a huff. 

“To quote you: what _isn’t_?” Jacob grinned, pointing his index at Abberline’s face. “It gives you a rare charm, I’ll give you that. But you can do so much better, Freddy.”

Frustration taking the best of him, the razor splashed against the water as he threw it inside. He simply didn’t have the strength to fight Jacob’s quips back. His body ached for the warm comfort of a bed and blankets, that was all he asked for. 

But Jacob was tilting his head, eyes flickering and a pout across his mouth. Somehow, it reminded him of a puppy, craving for attention, waiting for him to formulate the next question.

And Abberline couldn’t resist, so he yielded. 

“I bet you have a suggestion coming up,” he stated, fingertips rubbing on his left temple.

Jacob answered with a wolfish smile. “I have something better in mind. Besides, with only one hand you weren’t getting anywhere soon. Do you trust me?”

The answer should have been a round negative. Months had passed since they have become “acquainted”, and as Clara had foreshadowed: Jacob grew on you. That didn’t mean it was sensible to follow his judgement, despite good intentions. 

“Jacob, you are not even properly shaven,” Abberline pointed out. 

“ _Freddy_ ,” he gruffed, pulling a face that hit Abberline with guiltiness.

The scratch on his palm twitched, sending a wave of pain through his whole hand. Probably, Jacob’s offer wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Next day he had to meet with several clients, the ones that belonged to higher stations. Introducing himself half-shaven with an overgrown beard wouldn’t be fatal for his reputation, but it wouldn’t be any help either. 

And so he surrendered. “Oh, bother. I’ll bite.”

With a triumphant smirk, Jacob clapped his hands and sauntered the sink to reach for a wooden stool, left on the opposite corner of the bathroom. He dragged it close to Abberline’s knees and sticked his chin out to the piece of furniture.

“Sit down, Mr Abberline,” he pleaded mocking, little bow included. 

Shaking his head, Abberline complied. 

Jacob rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, up to the elbow, and retrieved the razor from the flooding sink. In utmost silence, Abberline observed his movements, how he dried up the blade and stared at his face, hand on chin. Hazy irises pierced him, and suddenly Abberline felt exposed—and it made him nervous, for some reason. This shouldn’t be no different from a visit to the barber. He didn’t have to worry about getting accidentally cut, because if Jacob was skilled at something, that was blades. 

Beard styling was a different matter, but Abberline inhaled and tried to relax. 

When Jacob leaned in to continue with the task, narrowing the distance between them to a few inches, it became clear to Abberline that relaxing was not going to be an option that night. And it had nothing to do with the fresh cut on his hand.

He realised he had never seen Jacob up so close (why would he, anyway). Without noticing, Abberline had started to map the soft wrinkles on his brow, to soak on the brownish green glare, to appreciate the rosiness of his cheeks and pale skin. 

Jacob Frye had a perfect, stupid handsome face and there was no denying that at such a distance. 

The razor grazed over his face carefully, with Jacob clawing fingers making him lean his head backwards. Abberline fidgeted. Tapped one feet on the floor, failing to hide his increasing nervousness. If Jacob noticed, he didn’t make fun of him. _That_ was a first, but he was focused on Abberline’s face. Incidentally, he thought, the main and only reason of his current predicament.

At this distance, he also felt Jacob’s breath. His smell, again—which was still good. It didn’t escape to him that this felt—

_intimate?_

Even inside his head, that idea sounded utterly inappropriate—as much as waking up on top of him after an alcohol blackout. This time, though, he couldn’t blame it on alcohol poisoning, sober as he was.

Then Jacob’s fingers grabbed his jaw, moving it slightly to one side as the blade shaved most of the beard. That broke the spell and Abberline blinked, flustered. He gulped. Remained silent. Yes, that was for the best. He lowered his eyes, avoiding any type of visual contact.

Minutes passed by in silence. Abberline couldn’t really tell until the warmth from Jacob’s hands disappeared from his face. He heard the razor against the sink, which meant it was finished. 

Jacob straightened back to have a look at his work.

He threw a smug, confident smile and nodded. “Fresh-faced Freddy. Look at that mustache!”

Standing up, Abberline faced his own reflection n the mirror. It was gone, except from his upper lip and sideburns.

It was definitely less… hairy, and that was a strange sensation. He had styled his beard in the same way since before coming to London. It made people take him more seriously. It had helped him to create a proper professional persona. The best way to disguise yourself among the higher classes of Londoners. 

Abberline blinked. “It’s… unexpectedly nice.”

The man that stared back resembled a younger self. Or to be fair, he now looked _his actual age_. He scratched the exposed skin, still sensitive after the shaving. 

With traces of blush surfacing on his cheeks, Abberline turned to look at Jacob. He gave a little, bashful smile of approval. 

Jacob grinned, face lighting up, and replied with his best version of the _I told you to trust me_ glare. 

“What about the hand?” he asked, sticking his chin out to Abberline’s still bandaged fingers.

“What about it” Abberline answered with a puzzled expression, his eyes darting to the wounded hand. 

An amused chuckle came from Jacob’s throat. “Freddy, as you may guess, I am familiar with treating wounds. And that dressing is rubbish, no offense.”

Abberline rolled his eyes, marching outside the bathroom. “So now you are my caretaker? It was a scratch, I think I can deal with it.”

He regretted those words immediately. A pang of pain rushed like thunder through his fingers and palm, hidden by the white cloth, as he clenched it in a fist. From the bathroom’s doorstep, Jacob leaned in and raised an eyebrow. 

“A scratch, hm?” he jested, smirking. “Come on, let me see.”

Without waiting for Abberline’s approval, Jacob strutted towards and took him by the wrist. Carefully he undid the (yes, poorly-made) bandage until it revealed what was behind—which turned out to be a rather reddish and deep cut across Abberline’s palm. His fingers twitched.

“Just a scratch, definitely,” Jacob mocked, running his fingertips around the wound. The motion sent shivers across his spine, and Abberline started to feel a strange knot on his stomach. “How the hell did you even get this, anyway?”

“I told you, I was working. It’s… a long story,” he sighed, shoulders sinking. 

Jacob beamed at him, letting go of the wrist. “Luckily for you, I have time. Now I only need some new bandages and alcohol.”

“I already disinfected it, Jacob,” he added in a growl, casting a side glance to his friend as he opened the cabinet filled with bottles. 

Jacob inspected them with interest, tapping his chin. “The alcohol is for _us_. Now be a dear and bring the bandages, sit down and stop complaining. And don’t fret, this time we’ll sleep separately.”

Abberline shot up his eyebrows. 

“It’d be nice to ask permission before inviting yourself, don’t you think?” he snapped, but it was clear from his tone he wasn’t angry. Somehow, he was past that point.

That was a surprise in itself. Months ago, he’d have been outraged—now it was simply part of being friends (as strange as that still sounded) with Frye. The unexpected visits, the smugness, the carefree attitude. Abberline had grown to find it both irritating and endearing. 

Lately, though, there was a little bit more of the latter. Abberline didn’t pay much attention to said fact.

“Consider it payment for my services tonight,” Jacob chimed, a smirk across his mouth. 

“Services I don’t remember hiring,” Abberline pointed out. This time it was his turn to quirk a smile.

Frowning, Jacob growled. “Freddy, just shut up and bring the bandages.”

He could have gone on, teasing and elaborating complains under the pretense of annoyance. Yet he did not.

Despite the throbbing pain on his hand, Abberline produced a chuckle and happily complied. 

After all, he owed Jacob a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: this chapter took a bit longer than I had intended. That may or may not be because of the last The Witcher 3's expansion as well as E3 overexcitement. Not at all.
> 
> Lastly, I decided to add one more chapter because thematically it didn't make sense to mix what I have in mind in one chapter. But I promise 6 chapters is the final number.


	5. Devil's in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had seen in Roth everything he had ever desired—freedom without restraints, no consequences, just living each minute. But Jacob hadn’t been able to cross the line and then the blindfold fell down, and he had seen Roth for what he really was—a devil, a monster.

The knock on the window of the living room became a comforting habit. Another routine Abberline enjoyed. Usually, twice or thrice a week he would hear the familiar sound, contain a happy smile and proceed to open the window. Every night, Jacob hanged from the sill with a wolfish smirk, pearls of sweat shining on his forehead. 

After such an entrance, which by then was nothing out of the ordinary, they would share a drink together. Play whist, fight over who was cheating (it was Jacob, undeniably), then laugh and keep drinking.

In every meeting, there was an unspoken rule Abberline had followed: avoid mentioning Miss Frye, Maxwell Roth or anything related to the Rooks and Jacob’s secret organization. That way, he knew there would be peace—no arguing, just amicable teasing between two friends. 

It had worked until that night, when Jacob came inside his living room reeking of smoke and burnt wood.

-

The Alhambra was hell, an inferno of fire bolts and crumbling rafters as it fell down. Flames crashed the glass of every window, crackling and filling the whole street with thick, black clouds of smoke. People shouted, coughed, cried and yelled around the scorching theatre, running without direction, escaping the pit of fire that the theatre had become.

Jacob stared at it from the garden on the other side, eyes watering from the smoke.

This, _this_ was his fucking doing. All of it.

Blame gnawed inside him, trembling limbs and hands in a fist as his nails clawed at the inner palms. Eyes were fixed on the Alhambra. The walls collapsed and flames ate everything on sight. People kept screaming, crashing against him as they tried to get far away from the structure.

Jacob didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t hear them. It was as if his eardrums had been pierced and the only sound he could hear was a constant whistling that hammered his head. The creaky splash of a glass shattering on the cobblestone made him blink, and everything turned too real, too tangible to process. The stink of velvety upholstery and oak wood burning invaded his senses, the cries of fear and terror were deafening. 

With a dodge, he moved aside, avoiding more collisions with terrified pedestrians. That’s when Jacob noticed he had been holding his breath. Instead of inhaling, he bursted into cough, the taste of smoke on his throat and mouth.

And something else.

Blood. Metallic and cold, mixed with the scent of fire. It didn’t belong to him. 

He knew it. The blood wasn’t his. His hands were soaked in this blood. What he tasted inside his mouth—it was Maxwell Roth.

-

Fumbling, Jacob managed to arrive in front of Freddy’s shop. Upstairs he could see the flash of tilting flames through the glass, probably from oil lamps lighted around the living room. When he reached for the sill as he climbed up the bricked wall, he noticed the room was dimly illuminated. But Jacob could distinguish the silhouette of the man sitting on his sofa, almost crouching over a ragged book.

He hesitated for a moment, pressing his lips together. Then knocked on the glass, as usual. 

And as usual, it didn’t take long for Freddy’s arrival. Clutching his fingers under the pane, he opened it up. Jacob’s hands clawed at the windowsill, as a smiling Freddy welcomed him. 

Clicking his tongue, he asked, “Have you ever thought of using the door?”

Normally, Jacob would have answered in jest. That night, however, he only drew up the corner of his mouth in an attempted smile. 

He could still feel the reek of thick smoke on his coat and body and hands. His mouth still tasted of someone else’s blood. 

“Can I come in?”

Freddy nodded and let him in. Jacob landed with a loud thump, feeling the attentive stare of Freddy behind him. 

He lowered his head, taking his hat off. Fingers rubbed through his hair nervously.

“I… I would like to stay tonight, if you don’t mind,” he muttered in a silent plea.

Freddy shot up his eyebrows, puzzled. 

“Of course, you’re always welcome.”

His voice had slightly cracked, which would have made Jacob smirk at any other time. After removing the hat, he peeled his coat off and Freddy—always nice, even when being grumpy—diligently took it from his arms and hanged it on the coat stand by the door. 

Jacob sat down on the couch and closed his eyes, sinking on the comfortness that the familiar place offered. He inhaled and tried to erase, or at least mask, the images of the blazing Alhambra from his mind.

It proved unsuccessful.

Freddy’s voice brought him back. “Jacob, are you feeling well?”

He probably had noticed it already, how his clothes stunk of smoke. Freddy was clever—too clever for his own good, as he had put it. There was no point in lying.

“No, Freddy. Not really,” he hissed, fingers grasping at his knees. 

Jacob heard some rustling. A second later, Freddy was crouching beside him, concern painted all over his face as his brow deepened. He gave Jacob a serious glance. 

“Are you hurt?”

 _Yes_ , he thought. “No.”

Freddy didn’t buy it, but he nodded silently and stood up. “If you need anything…”

Jacob faked a smile, feeling sick inside. And as he watched Freddy’s eyes piercing him with honest worry, he realised something that startled his consciousness. That ugly sensation sitting on the mouth of his stomach, crawling like a spider to the back of his head, didn’t have anything to do with Roth being a bloody psychopath in the end. Not even with the kiss or the prospect of having answered to that kiss—a lingering idea that he had pushed aside, for now, because he could barely handle anything more at that moment. 

No, it wasn’t any of that. That sickness had an origin, a cause, and it was _him_. Bloody Jacob Frye, fucking and ruining everything since the day he was born and took his mother’s life with him. 

Had Evie been right all along? He was reckless, gullible and he fucked up. Yes, he got the job done while his sister chased after relics. But at what price? He almost got children killed in the process, and he definitely got a theatre in flames and a psychopath pinning for him. A few sweet words here and there, the promise of thrill and adventures, some fine wine he could never have afforded and he had been eating from Roth’s palm, following him like a stray dog craving attention. Because that was what it had all been about. 

Jacob hadn’t seen it coming—and _that_ was the problem. He was but a fool. Pearl had already played him. Now it had been Roth’s turn, but this time it hurt. This betrayal had been a knife plunged at his back—and the irony was that Roth had felt betrayed, too. Because he had ran after the children. And if Jacob had been clever, he would have read Roth’s persona and sensed the danger. Instead, he had chosen to ignore it and be pampered. But he hadn't thought about the consequences… until now, when they spat at him in the face, taking the shape of a burning building while people cried around him. 

That was it, wasn’t it? That was the reason of all the disasters he had caused, all the mayhem that had followed him since their arrival in London. 

It was him. He was the problem, not the solution.

His sister had been so right and that made Jacob even angrier at her, which he knew was unfair—yet the rage was there, boiling inside him with his own self loathing and he was trying to suppress all of that and keep a straight face while biting his lip. 

He didn’t think for a second it was working.

Jacob looked up, wringing his hands nervously, and a pair of eyes still watched him with concern. Something he clearly didn’t deserve, but was given nonetheless. 

Freddy. He had tried to dissuade him from joining forces with Roth. Of course, Jacob hadn’t listened. Freddy had remained silent and patiently listened to his ramblings, to his complaining of Evie. To everything. And he was still there, not asking questions and offering help.

Jacob felt ashamed of himself, and he knew he would only feel worse when facing Evie. Ironically, he found it funny thinking back to when they met and how much Freddy had hated him. But here he was, still looking at him, waiting and making sure he was well.

Jacob didn’t deserve any of that kindness, he knew it and it made him feel sicker. 

Nodding, he met Freddy’s look. “Thank you.”

Freddy smiled, almost bashfully, and Jacob swallowed his guilt.

“Anytime.”

-

_Once more, for old time’s sake?_

_And then we’re finished._

It felt as if weeks had passed, not just hours. The words still searing his tongue, aching. Everything felt empty and a bit greyer. It didn’t seem real enough to be concerned about it. How could he and Evie go their separate ways? Unthinkable. Then a little voice whispered at the back of his head that it was good thing, leaving her behind. She was insufferable, wasn’t she? Her disdain, her arrogance, her sense of superiority. 

She hated him.

And that’s when he started to feel it again—the anger, the bitterness. Like venom through his veins, poisoning him from inside. The voice repeated again and again, _better off without her_.

Letting the rage flow was easy, comforting even. But Jacob didn’t like that voice, so he shut it down, shaking his head as he looked at the reflection in the mirror. 

He adjusted the silken scarf around his neck and frowned a bit. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost seven,” Freddy added. He was standing against the counter, the shop already closed. Outside the window’s glasses, the lively street still buzzed, filled with people and carriages.

Jacob turned on his heels and walked away from the mirror. The suit fit him loosely, but it seemed appropriate for the task. 

“I will give it back in one piece, promised,” he crossed fingers against his chest, forcing a grin.

Freddy smiled, folding his arms. “Be careful with the bloodstains.”

Jacob simply shrugged, taking a last peek at the looking glass. 

“Being a ball, I could say it was wine,” he stated, moving towards the counter. Closer to where Freddy stood, unaware of everything. Of what had happened the day before, of what had happened with Evie, of what happened to him.

“And I wouldn’t believe you.” Freddy’s snicker startled him. And when their gazes met, Jacob could see again the slight sense of distress in his friend’s face. “You look… absent,” Freddy said, piercing through him.

So there was no beating around the bush this time. No vague answers. The man deserved better, Jacob repeated to himself. He took a deep breath.

“Yesterday was not a good day. But today… Well,” he paused, swallowing the sadness and frustration and rage. “Evie and I had a fight. A very heated one and no, I don’t want to talk about it,” he hurried up to add, raising a finger. 

It worked, because Freddy’s mouth had already opened and suddenly closed again in a blink. He still frowned at him, though. Jacob could almost hear the screeching of teeth inside his mouth to stay quiet. 

“Well, whatever you’re up to in that ball… don’t do anything stupid, alright?” he grunted, yet the hint of concern masked his grumping. 

_Don’t do anything stupid, alright?_

Jacob chuckled at the timing of the warning. Wasn’t everything he had done a stupid mistake? According to Evie, and now he couldn’t deny it. At least, not to his own inner monologue. Not after the Alhambra. Tonight they were infiltrating Buckingham Palace—the most guarded place of all the bloody Empire, probably. It was going to be dangerous, yes, and the chances of fucking up were higher since they didn’t even have a plan.

But of course Evie would have thought of something by the time they reunited for their last mission. A sort of goodbye between brother and sister. 

_And then we’re finished_.

He chuckled again, just to hide the throbbing itch in his eyes. 

Since the Alhambra, everything had felt numb. Like one hell of a hangover—an extremely bad one. The feeling still lingered and he thought it best.

Because he hadn’t realised that this was going to be a night to remember. A full stop at the end of a sentence. A farewell. He might even die, but that didn’t seem so important. He had already lost a sister, so whatever came after would feel empty and dead. 

Unsurprised, Jacob realised that he only had one thing left he gave a damn shit about. And that was Freddy. Grumpy, too good and too clever Freddy. The realisation was followed by the sense of impending doom that had grown as a knot in his throat. He gulped. 

And he knew what he wanted to do. The _why_ was not important, he thought—but then Roth’s laughter hissing _Why not?_ found its way back, crawling through his brain. 

He shook his head, eyes closed for a second. If this were to become his last day breathing, he might as well start doing the stupid thing. After all, he had a unique skill in accomplishing that. 

“I’m afraid I’m about to, my friend,” he muttered, raising his head with a crooked smile on its face.

Freddy blinked, offering a confused look. Before he had a chance to reply, Jacob moved fast.

Cupping Freddy’s cheeks, Jacob leaned in closer. He got a glimpse of Freddy’s widening eyes, painted with disbelief. Keeping his eyes shut, Jacob brushed his lips against Freddy’s. Tentative and a bit too rushed at first, then craving the warmth, the breathing against his own mouth. Freddy’s lips weren’t coarse neither sweet. The moustache itched on his skin, and Jacob would have laughed at any other time. 

But not now—because he was kissing Frederick Abberline. 

It was gentle and kind and, for a moment, Jacob wasn’t so infuriated with the world and with himself. 

Then it all faded quickly as he released Freddy’s face from his grip and their mouths separated. Because suddenly he had understood why he was kissing him, why he had the sudden need to do it. 

It was because he cared about him, because he still remained at his side, even if he disapproved of his actions. Because he made him feel better. 

_He, he, he_. Because he was being selfish. Again. As he had always been, and Jacob felt a shiver through his spine. Because he was closer to what Roth’s was than he feared. That’s why he was doing this, wasn’t it? Roth had burnt a theatre for him, had kissed him too to fulfill his own whims without asking before breathing his last. They had enjoyed danger together, the resulting mayhem. He had seen in Roth everything he had ever desired—freedom without restraints, no consequences, just living each minute. But Jacob hadn’t been able to cross the line and then the blindfold fell down, and he had seen Roth for what he really was—a devil, a monster. 

Was he the same, in the end? Had he become such a horrible human being? He had no answer, but it sickened him to even think he’d treat Freddy the same way.

He broke the kiss and stared at Freddy, maybe hoping for a response. Even a punch in the face. Anything. 

Frozen like a marble statue in exhibition, he just stood there. Cheeks flushed, dilated pupils, his lips ajar. There wasn’t a reply—and Jacob did the same he’s always done when facing a problem. What he thought was best for both of them. 

Running away.

Swift and silent, he reached for the main door and slammed it behind him. 

Another full stop, another farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry it took me so, so long to update with a new chapter. July was busy as hell because I had two different trips and then a load of work waiting at home. This chapter was also particularly difficult to write. I wanted to do a sort of stream of conciousness of Jacob in the aftermath of the Alhambra and his fight with Evie. But there are so many things going on there in his head (or at least I imagine there are), so many things Jacob has to question after seeing how his actions affect the real world. And then of course is the whole thing with Roth, which is both complicated and fascinating. For me, his relationship with Roth and his falling-out with Evie are a pivotal point in his character development, so I hope I could at least make sense of all of it.
> 
> Once again: thanks for reading and leaving kudos! <3


	6. Better Late Than Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Evie, after what I did, I’m sure he had a stroke,” he added bitterly. “If I force myself there, he’d either feel really embarrassed or really angry. Which he has plenty of reason to be, by the way.”
> 
> She was done with this. After their fight, it had been pretty clear both had tried to be more conciliatory than they had ever been. Almost too much, and Evie was fed up. She stood up fast like a bolt, hands on her hips. Glowering at him, the words rushed to her mouth. She had to be careful; she didn’t want to risk another quarrel with Jacob. It was too soon, and she had learnt the lesson—less scolding, more heart-to-heart talk. Even if he didn’t like what she had to said. 
> 
> “Listen to me, Jacob Frye.”

“So,” Evie huffed, eyes focused on the book she was holding firmly between her hands, “have you paid a visit to Mr Abberline yet, Jacob?”

Jacob’s fingers halted, intertwined with locks of bright brown hair. It had been months, maybe more than a year, since they had sit together in a comfortable silence while Jacob braided Evie’s indomitable and long mane. She didn’t remember when it began, but it was undeniable that her dear brother was much more skillful at braiding than her. Her attempts usually ended up with more wild hairs out of place than she’d like to admit. Throughout the years, it became a peaceful routine—a bonding moment between brother and sister, both in happiness and sadness. 

She still remembered those sleepless nights, alone in their shared bedroom. When Father had fallen sick and he moved to the eaves. He did it to spare his children the pain of hearing their father’s disgorged sounds as he suffered coughing fits repeatedly. The twins would share silent looks when George closed the door as he left. Neither he or Father told them much, but it didn’t take long to notice that it wasn’t a cold or the flu. 

To pass those nights filled with worry and unshed tears, Jacob would sit on the edge of the bed while she stayed cross-legged on the floor. He would brush her hair carefully then start braiding; they would hum a tune together, if the distance between their room and the eaves wasn’t enough to drown Father’s incessant coughing. 

Evie could barely believe that had been just a year ago; but she took some comfort in thinking of her current situation. Now she was sitting on the floor again; and Jacob was braiding her hair too from the couch. But everything was different. They had managed to accomplish what Father had wanted them to do—liberating London from the Templars’ grasp. Yet she didn’t feel _this_ happy only because of that. Henry had a lot to do with it—but then there was also his stubborn brother. They were together, as it should be; and Evie felt a pang of guilt for almost letting their bond end like a spent candle. 

But they were good, they were _good_. However, there was an unresolved matter waiting to be addressed. And she firmly planned not to let Jacob get away with it.

“I will take your silence as a negative answer,” Evie chided, closing the book on her lap. 

This time, Jacob produced a groan. “No, no. I haven’t.”

He continued the braiding, sliding his fingers between tresses and lacing each lock expertly. Evie moved her head to stare at him above her shoulder; she made a point to frown very deliberately. 

“Jacob, it’s almost been a month since the ball. The poor man must think you are injured—or dead.” 

He yanked one lock, which granted him a loud ‘ouch’ as an answer. She replied by elbowing him on his left leg. 

“Then he’s probably relieved.”

Evie twisted her upper body so that she could face him directly, blinking in disbelief. 

“You can’t be serious,” she stated curtly, the frown on her brow deepened. “He cares too, you know.”

With a loud grunt, Jacob gave up on the braid and let the locks loose. They fell on Evie’s shoulders like a cascade. Hands in the air, he slided on the couch’s back. 

“Evie, after what I did, I’m sure he had a stroke,” he added bitterly. “If I force myself there, he’d either feel really embarrassed or really angry. Which he has plenty of reason to be, by the way.”

She was done with this. After their fight, it had been pretty clear both had tried to be more conciliatory than they had ever been. Almost too much, and Evie was fed up. She stood up fast like a bolt, hands on her hips. Glowering at him, the words rushed to her mouth. She had to be careful; she didn’t want to risk another quarrel with Jacob. It was too soon, and she had learnt the lesson—less scolding, more heart-to-heart talk. Even if he didn’t like what she had to said. 

“Listen to me, Jacob Frye,” she inhaled a gulp of air, weighting every sentence and its intonation. “You are trying to make up for past deeds, and I do believe that’s a commendable goal. I’m with you, you know that, right?” Jacob nodded slowly, lifting one eyebrow. “But this man, Mr Abberline, he had no reason to like you from the very beginning. And yet, he learnt to appreciate you for what you truly are—a good man, even if sometimes you make it hard to see. Yes, he may be angry because you kissed him. Or maybe he’s angry because you left without saying anything. Then, you don’t even go back to offer an explanation out of cowardice. An apology. Nothing.” She stopped her train of thought, mouth dry and cheeks heated. The only reaction she was getting from him was an indescifrable blank stare. “Jacob, that is not fair. You said you felt he was being too good with you, that you didn’t deserve that friendship or kindness. I say to hell with that. Stop the self-pitying and pull yourself together.”

A moment of profound silence fell between them. Evie feared that Jacob had taken it the wrong way—that she was giving him a reprimand. She would just rather try to save him one more mistake. Evie swallowed, her fingers clenched in a fist. After holding each other’s stare for what seemed an eternity, Jacob looked down and chuckled. 

“By any chance, have you been practicing pep-talks, dear sister?” he snorted, lifting an eyebrow. “That was a good one, for sure. But I stand by my opinion. I don’t want to get Freddy into more trouble. I just need to… let everything calm down. Figure all of this out, that’s all. We still have lots of work in the city and—”

Raising her index, Evie cut him before the load of excuses would increase with each word he pronounced. 

“What do you need to figure out exactly? I think it’s blatantly clear from this side.”

Jacob threw her a shifty look, lips pursed into a cocky smile. Evie realised she had missed those traits from Jacob, much to her own surprise. _This_ was the brother she knew—cheeky and so full of himself. Yes, it was the same who got on her nerves. She loved him nonetheless. 

“Oh do enlighten me then,” he dared.

Evie crossed her arms, averting the sharp glare from the couch. She started to cavort around the car, paying unusual attention to the ceiling’s golden ornaments. 

With a deep sigh, she untied the knot on her throat and spoke. “You feel ashamed for what you feel and what you did. Because you thought you would be like Roth. And you shouldn’t. And you fear Mr Abberline’s judgement—that he rejects you.”

There wasn’t an immediate answer, as she’d expected. She heard a gruff chuckle coming from Jacob’s mouth, hidden behind his palm. Evie feared the coming of another uncomfortable, tense quietness. So it really caught her off guard when Jacob raised her head to face her, smiling—and it was a smirk, yes, but an honest one. Not hurt or angry, just sincere. 

“Well, congratulations,” he chimed, faking a bow. “You remain the clever Frye, don’t fret. And there’s also your answer as to why I’m not going anywhere, clear?”

Evie took a breath, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Under Jacob’s scrutiny, she flopped on the couch beside him and rested a hand on her brother's shoulder. 

“Jacob, I was afraid too. When I tried to deny my feelings for Mr Green—Henry. It didn’t serve me well,” she reasoned unflinchingly. 

“Ah, yes. Your sudden display of affection in front of me was both endearing and overwhelming, sister,” Jacob quipped, putting on an exaggerated grimace. “But there’s a slight difference. _Mine_ ,” he made a motion, pointing to his chest, “can get you in jail—and I’m sure it’s not a widely acceptable idea among people. Being Freddy one of them.”

Frowning, she leaned in closer to Jacob as if to avoid his recurring dismissals. 

“Are you also aware of all the other criminal activities we have engaged in that could get you in jail? Has not Mr Abberline remained your friend, despite it all? Has he not seen the good you did, even if he didn’t share your methods?” Evie’s aptly remarks didn’t go unnoticed, and she witnessed with glee that something had shifted in Jacob’s expression when the realisation dropped onto him like a jar of icy water in December. She searched for his eyes, delivering a soft squeeze to his shoulder. He gazed back at her. “Jacob, I’m not… I’m not saying he’ll reciprocate. But I’m sure he will be understanding. He’s a good man, you should know that more than anyone.”

Bertha blew a blaring whistle along with the constant train’s clattering on the rails. The car trembled briefly, jolting as they passed under the arch of Charing Cross’ station. They didn’t stop, and Evie mentally thanked Agnes for the timely schedule. She didn’t need distractions from outside, especially not in the shape of Rook members coming back to the hideout to drink, now that she had managed to have this conversation with her brother. 

He would have time to celebrate or drink away his heartache, if that were the case—something in which she didn’t want to spend time thinking. Even if it hurt, her experience told her it was the right thing to do. 

As Bertha sailed away from the bustling platform, rattling her way through the city, Evie held his breath, waiting for an answer. Without staring at her directly, Jacob swallowed, slicking his hair back several times anxiously. He was biting his lips, drumming fingers against the armrest. Evie could almost hear the gears of his brain at full work, deciding if he should give in or keep the stubborn attitude to avoid facing his own problems and demons. 

That’s why her lips lifted up in a broad smile when he finally muttered under his breath, annoyingly. 

“You’re such a pain in the arsehole when you’re right, sweet sister.”

The hand on his shoulder grabbed onto him and Evie wrapped her arm around Jacob’s neck, despite his growls mixed with defeated smiles, and relished in her laugh of victory. 

“You must be used by now, then,” she crowed, sticking her tongue out like they were ten years old all over again.

Jacob didn’t waste any time. His fingers pinched her cheeks, grinning with a devilish spark on his eyes. For the first time after Father’s death, Evie did feel genuinely that they were leaving behind old grudges and burdens.

Now they were moving forward.

-

The crisp autumn air swept inside the room from the half opened window, blowing against the titillating flames from the candleholder in front of him. Meticulously, Abberline inspected a set of different instruments kept inside a worn out case lying on the oaken table. Polishing his clockmaker’s tools had become a relaxing habit, a way to unwind and focus his mind on nothing but the task at hand.

There was plenty he didn’t want to think about, so the past weeks he had spent a substantial amount of time cleaning every pair of pliers, keys for the winding clocks or spare gears before retiring to his bedroom. It helped, and Abberline faked a content smile as he diligently wiped the pincers in his hand with a cloth. 

As he repeated the same motion, Abberline tried to convince his own mind that everything was fine. He did it every night, and every night he went to bed with the intention of forgetting about the turn his life had taken in the past months—about the Rooks, Blighters, secret organizations, all that nonsense. 

He would also pretend to forget about Jacob. It was the sensible thing to do. 

Abberline oscillated between worry and anger when he remembered Jacob. After fleeing the shop, the only information Abberline had gathered was that he was to embark on a dangerous mission during a ball. Jacob hadn’t specified _which_ ball, but the next day the newspapers were filled with reports about strange explosions at the Queen’s ball in Buckingham Palace. They had even found the unconscious bodies of several Royal guards posted on the rooftops.

Abberline didn’t try to fool himself. He didn’t want to think something bad had actually happened—so he returned to the only comfort he had ever found: his job. That way, there was no need to ponder whether Jacob had died or whether he had ran away, having a good laugh at Abberline’s expense. 

One month had passed. At first, Abberline had found the courage to do something about it. He asked Clara about the twins. She had assured him they would be fine, even if she hadn’t met them in person yet. Then he had tried to locate the Frye’s train hideout, unsuccessfully. Out of ideas and options, he ceased to cling to any chink of hope he might have left, even if the frustration of not knowing what had been of his friend pained him.

Staunchly focused on the tools, Abberline didn’t notice the fading shadow that hang from the half-opened window. The soft knock on the window’s glass didn’t break his attention from the table, absorbed in arranging every piece in its right place on the canvas. 

A second knock, immediately followed by a concealed cough as someone cleared his throat. 

_Someone_. Eyes bugged out and hands freezed, Abberline brought his head up briskly. 

He had to blink twice to believe it was real, not a trick of his exhausted sight.

“Good evening, Freddy,” the familiar voice greeted, forcing an innocent smile on his lips.

Abberline dragged the chair’s legs back, getting up and staring intently at the cloaked man that now stood in the middle of his living room. Finger raised, he pointed at him. 

“You,” he whispered both comforted and infuriated at once, his heart jolting violently.

As if he was burying the hatchet even before the fight broke out, Jacob approached him in short steps, holding up his hands in the air. His face was partially hidden by the hood, drawing shadows around his furrowed eyes. 

Abberline found himself in the same state when Jacob had ran off; his body paralyzed, frozen in time like a broken clock. His breathing was speeding up, bursting—and the blazing anger was mixed up with the sense of relief at seeing him alive and well. 

When he was close enough, Jacob stopped and took off his hood. Abberline narrowed his eyes, scowling. The lamps’ lights brightened Jacob’s white skin, shades of red around the cheeks. The moonlight casted irregular shadows inside the room, outlining his bulky form against the glinting beams. Abberline saw him leaning in, still keeping a safe distance.

“Before you lash out against me, which you have every right to do, let me apologise in advance, alright?” he requested, hints of shame in his voice. 

Abberline curled his hand on a fist. Every muscle tensed up, his face twisted in an incensed expression. 

“You come now to apologise?” he echoed scathingly. “And you barge here in the middle of the night after vanishing? If that’s your idea of apology, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Jacob stiffened, uncomfortable. He bowed his head to one side, averting Abberline’s condemnatory glare in his direction. 

Close-lipped, Jacob retorted, “Could have written a letter, but I don’t think that would’ve been a better solution.”

Abberline exhaled effusively, and found the strength to move his limbs. “No, it wouldn’t. The solution would have been coming here when you finished that damned mission at the ball."

Nervous and restless, he started wandering around the living room, wringing his hands together. Jacob didn’t take his eyes off him, following every fumbling step in perfect mutedness. 

“Jacob, four weeks. Four bloody weeks and no word from you. I thought you were…” he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut at the image that had haunted him. 

Jacob pivoted towards him, stopping half way. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Freddy. Truly,” he hissed mournfully, glance fixed on the floor’s carpet. 

He should remain angry, Abberline knew it. Yet he found that with each word coming from Jacob’s mouth, heartbroken, the outburst of rage faded slightly away. Shaking his head, Abberline resumed the prancing. 

“I thought you were dead, for sure. And after what happened…. Now you show up here, and what am I supposed to do?”

Another step closer, and Jacob was less than a meter away. If Abberline had sniffed, he would have recalled the familiar smell of leather, soap and coal he associated with his friend. He wanted to drown his senses in that scent, as utterly foolish and lovestruck as that seemed. Refraining from sinking so low, he simply threw Jacob a challenging stare, chin up and arms folded. They stood speechless in the middle of the living room, illuminated by the dim pool of light coming from the lampshade above them. 

Jacob still avoided Abberline’s gaze, sucking his teeth. “You could just… pretend nothing happened. Look, I know I have been an awful friend lately. But I value your friendship, Freddy, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He sounded pleading. “If you think you can forgive me, then forget what happened and let’s move on. As friends.”

It was a sight to behold when Jacob Frye exposed himself with such vulnerabilities in front of anyone, Abberline thought. He could even say he was moved by Jacob’s request. It would certainly have been the easiest path, for both of them. But after one month of living under constant turmoil, Abberline had decided (or maybe realised, finally) that he could ignore no longer what his mind and body were so intent in manifesting, despite his reluctance. 

Friendship demanded honesty, so Abberline sighed defeatedly, rubbing his closed eyelids. 

“That’s the gist, Jacob. I can’t forget it, because… it mattered.”

As he had expected, there wasn’t a vocal reply. He felt his stomach wrenching, glancing up to see the shock in Jacob’s puzzled stare, lips parted and eyebrows shot up. 

The he cleared his throat and tilted his head, the glimpse of a smirk hanging on his mouth. “You mean…? Well, that is… good, then?”

Abberline held his gaze, crossing his arms again. He stopped his nervous strutting before him.

“You tell me. You are the one who disappeared afterwards,” he pointed out, shrugging.

To his surprise, Jacob let out a soft chuckle, slipping his hair back once more to keep busy—and to hide the embarrassment, Abberline suspected. He would need to mark the date down: the day he made Jacob Frye both sentimental and nervous. If he wasn’t suffering from cramps in his legs and stomach, he’d have savoured the victory. 

One more step, thinning out the distance that stood between like a cold wall. “I told you I was about to do something stupid then, didn’t I?” he snorted.

Abberline looked up, meeting Jacob’s gaze just a few inches above him. Their height difference wasn’t very pronounced, and Jacob was all broad shoulders but not so tall; and despite that Abberline gulped, because his presence soaked over him blindingly. 

“I thought you meant the kiss,” he cracked. 

“Me too,” Jacob conceded apologetically. “But if these past weeks have taught me something, is that I have been more wrong than I thought. That’s another thing to add to the list.”

Abberline blinked, trying to come up with something. But it was time one of them stated the subject they had avoided until now.

“But we are… men, Jacob,” Abberline muttered.

Jacob surprised him once more, giving a short shrug as if he couldn’t quite understand what Abberline was implying.

“Putting your underestimated police inspector skills to good use, Freddy?” he laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “I think I noticed. I have decided I don’t really care.” His voice trembled with a shade of hesitation. “Do… do you?”

In the end, Abberline caved in. That was not a surprise, because he knew he would, eventually. Now it was him who moved forward, leaving barely any space between their bodies. His cheeks heated and his throat was dry; just like when he confessed his love for Martha so many years ago. His heart clenched a bit.

“I suppose I _should_ care...” His lips curled up in a crushed smile. “But I don’t, actually. You have turned me into quite the brigand.”

Jacob chuckled, then added with a sultry whisper, “Then I am not such a bad influence after all.”

Instead of entertaining Jacob’s quips to avoid acting, Abberline decided it was time he took the initiative, moving both hands up as he cradled Jacob’s face between his quivering palms. For a brief, passing moment, their foreheads touched, warm breathes bursting with anticipation. Then he bent over a little, enough to press his lips against Jacob’s with a soft caress. Jacob purred in reply, reaching for Abberline’s waist. He dug his fingers there, as if he wanted to hold Abberline forever so close, their chests clashing with each starving, wet kiss. It was slow, and tender, even when Jacob’s rough stubble brushed against his skin. He could feel his heart racing, knees weak and his whole body heating up as he heard the noises coming from the clashing of mouths and breathes, bodies melting together.

He could barely think straight, but there was a clear realisation that this is what he had wished, and now it seemed too good to be real.

But it was, as Jacob’s soft moans against his mouth indicated, his hands clenching on the back of the vest he wore.

Tugging him gently by the hair, Abberline deepened the kiss, dabbing his tongue over Jacob’s mouth. Hands dove keenly on his waist as Jacob pulled him closer, knocking him slightly over in a bent angle. He let out a low moan when Jacob’s slid his tongue tentatively, and he allowed him, their noses nudging. 

He nibbled at Abberline’s lower lip before moving away to grasp for some needed air. A sheepish grin was drawn on his face when Abberline looked up at him, half-lidded, and both of them panting heavily. 

“Does this mean you accept my apology?” he mumbled, gasping.

Sucking in a breath, Abberline put some distance a bit rattled, all swollen lips and flushed cheeks, and rested his hands on Jacob’s shoulders. 

“I think I deserve an explanation, at least. About what happened before the ball or why you just disappeared?”

Jacob nodded, guilt written in his hazel eyes. “Fair. But I owe you a very long, long story. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he replied fastly.

“Then some spiritual help might come in handy, too,” Jacob remarked wittily, untangling himself from their embrace. 

He proceeded to take off his cloak, casting it aside recklessly and sliding onto the couch. Abberline shook his head and chuckled, walking towards the liquor cabinet.

-

“And after all that, you were knighted?” Abberline exclaimed sceptical.

How long the chat had being going on, he wasn’t sure and he didn’t want to know. Alcohol kept them awake, one glass of gin after another while Jacob recounted everything he had hidden from him for the last month. There was a load of information, but Jacob forced himself to leave no details; and Abberline appreciated the effort and newfound sincerity. It was probably too much to gather in one night—one drunken night, to be precise. The burning of the Alhambra, which stung more deeply than Abberline thought it would, the fight with Evie and their discovery of the vault in Buckingham Palace. 

Jacob snorted, gulping another shot of his gin. “I tell about a bleeding shroud with magical powers that can heal wounds, and you are shocked because the Queen knighted me?”

“To be quite honest, Jacob, I have a hard time believing both things. Or you’re just taking the piss,” he pointed with a mock stern face. 

Rolling his eyes, Jacob leant in the table to fill his glass. “That is not the proper manner to address a Knight of the Realm, Mr Abberline.”

He cackled louder than he would ever do, the effects of the gin already working up. 

“I think you have never, ever, _ever_ called me Mr Abberline,” he hiccuped, grinning with narrowed eyes. “Also, knights don’t soak their shirts with gin.”

Finishing his fourth glass in one draught, Jacob stamped it on the small table and wiped his mouth clean.

“I can take it off, if that’s what you want,” he suggested, biting his lower lip. “You know, I remember you ogling me at the fight clubs.”

Tipsy as he was, Abberline choked on his drink. “That’s… that’s preposterous,” he paused, reconsidering his words. “And probably true.”

The smile on Jacob’s lips was nothing but self-satisfied.

“So… After all my ramblings, are we good, Freddy?” he asked. Abberline noticed the change in his features. He was covering it with mockery, as always; but even behind the alcohol intoxication, Jacob was serious about his question. 

He nodded, smiling drunkenly. “We are, Jacob. We are,” Jacob’s eyes lighted up, then he raised his index finger. “Next time don’t run away.”

With almost feline movements, Jacob dragged himself on the couch to sit very close to him, then wrapped his arm around Abberline’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. One that tasted of gin, mostly; but Abberline found it nice and hot and moist, drowning Jacob’s scent around him. 

“Better late than never, hm?” Jacob mouthed inside the kiss, eyes shut down as he cupped Abberline’s face and lost himself in his lips.

Letting out a contented sigh, Frederick Abberline couldn’t have agreed more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait! There's a little surprise coming up.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine o’clock. But it was Sunday, so he didn’t have to work in the shop. With the prospect of a promising, quiet morning free from obligations, Abberline managed to turn up on the mattress, slipping off the sheets. He stretched his arms and legs, still lying on the bed, pondering whether he should make breakfast or shave first. His chin was raspy already. 
> 
> He heard the snoring next to him, and Abberline couldn’t help a wide smile on his lips.

The morning sun rose up, marking the beginning of a new day. A cloudless spring Sunday. The noisy speaking coming from the street was indication that the Strand would be more crowded than usual. Parishioners took walks in the nearby park, once mass was finished. Families would set up picnics and artists brought their easels outside to make the most of the shining sunlight—a gift to treasure in London. Even with the bedroom window closed and curtains drawn, the noise and brightness was enough to wake him up. His eyelids felt heavy and Abberline struggled to open them, sight still blurred as he focused on his surroundings. 

Yawning, he moved his hand to reach the nightstand beside the bed. Fumbling, his fingers bumped into the small object he was looking for. With one eye still closed, Abberline managed to lift up his head enough to have a look at the pocket watch’s hands.

Nine o’clock. But it was Sunday, so he didn’t have to work in the shop. With the prospect of a promising, quiet morning free from obligations, Abberline managed to turn up on the mattress, slipping off the sheets. He stretched his arms and legs, still lying on the bed, pondering whether he should make breakfast or shave first. His chin was raspy already. 

He heard the snoring next to him, and Abberline couldn’t help a wide smile on his lips. 

Under tangled white sheets and blankets wrapped around his waist, Jacob slept soundly, his mouth ajar and hair spread out on the pillow. Abberline watched him lovingly, propping himself on one elbow to have a better view. 

Jacob still had a roguish air, with his untrimmed sideburns and stubble. The white skin now showed a flair or sunburnt, especially around his arms and face. Spending almost one year in India would have done that to him, even after the long way back home. Abberline’s gaze lowered, enthralled by his bare chest. He still had a strange fixation on Jacob’s tattooes—something even he had teased Abberline about. Despite the mocking, Jacob was the first to give him a wanton look when he caught Abberline staring at the bird whenever they were alone and, well, almost undressed. It was as if he couldn’t grasp the idea that someone’s affections or desires were addressed to him. Abberline found that detail amusing and lovable, discovering that Jacob was much more adorable than anyone could ever guess behind his public bravado. 

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Jacob opening both eyes.

“Enjoying what you see?” he taunted, face down on the pillow. 

Chuckling softly, Abberline bent down to give him a peck. 

“I was wondering when you would wake up,” he answered, tucking Jacob’s hair behind his ear. 

Jacob turned to kiss Abberline’s palm, glancing up. “Some bloke made sure I didn’t have much sleep last night. Even after a months-long trip. No rest for the wicked, they say.”

“I’m sure you two had a lot of catching up to do, am I right?” Abberline ventured, mocking lack of interest. 

“Oh god, you are,” Jacob hissed, smirking playfully. “Now that I’m back, he will have a hard time getting rid of me for the next years, I believe.”

“Well, maybe he would like you to stay.” 

The words blurted from his mouth, but Abberline felt almost disconnected—he hadn’t just made a veiled proposition to Jacob Frye to live with him, had he? No, it was insane, wasn’t it? He gulped loudly, while Jacob blinked at him gaping. 

_Excellent job, Frederick_ , he scolded, _you have single-handedly ruined a perfect Sunday morning._

Jacob raised his brow, tipping his head. “Freddy… are you asking me to move in?”

To hide the blazing red on his face, Abberline covered it with one hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t planning on doing it, but…” he sighed, finally moving his hand away to hold Jacob’s gaze, “I have missed you these months. A lot.” He heard himself, sounding like a desperately in love damsel, and cringed. “I entertained the idea, and since you live alone on the train now… Well,” he shrugged, wringing his hands together as he sat up on the bed. “But you don’t have to answer. You can just ignore it, if it makes you uneasy.” 

He shut his mouth, waiting for an answer that Jacob didn’t give. He just stared blankly, and Abberline started to feel concerned. 

Then Jacob got up from the bed, kneeling on the mattress so that he could see Abberline from above. He was also shamelessly naked, and Abberline had the urge to look sideways. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Jacob’s body—he had done much more than simply watch. But a part of him still got all flustered when facing him naked in bright light. The remains of a sense of decency and manners, maybe. But then he felt Jacob’s fingers grabbing him by the chin, forcing him to look up.

He smirked wolfishly and euphoric. “I think it was about bloody time you asked me, Freddy.”

As Jacob stormly leapt on to kiss him, Abberline had almost no time to draw the widest, happiest smile of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I had outlined what I wanted to happen by the end of the story, mostly. My problem was the HOW TO DO IT. In the face of doubt, I chose shameless domesticity fluff as the true ending. I'm sorry if it feels a bit rushed, though. 
> 
> This is the first long fic I have written in a long, _long_ time (basically, my other long fics go back to when I was a teenager writing cringe worthy fanfiction). So this was quite the challenge. I want to thank you all again for your really nice comments as well as kudos and bookmarks! 
> 
> I will probably keep spamming the Syndicate fandom for a little longer with more fics.


End file.
